


Love in a Time of War

by cleo4u2, cobaltmoony



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Conductor Steve, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Lovers, Good Guy Brock, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Mistaken Death, Opera singer Bucky, Operas, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slow Burn, Tragedy, heteronormative parental dreams, one sided pining, the opera has its own tags that start here, the opera itself has an unhappy ending, the trauma of war, this story has an happy ending, two stories in one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleo4u2/pseuds/cleo4u2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony
Summary: James Barnes is a world renowned opera singer who has dreamed of performing in an opera composed by Steve Rogers. When his dream finally comes true, he quickly regrets what he’s always wished for. But while Steve can’t stand James, Bucky can’t stop wishing they could have some kind of future together. Will Steve realize he’s wrong about Bucky? Or is the damage from their first meeting too much to overcome?





	1. They Meet

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/profile) for being my wonderful beta! More thanks to [PerfectlyImperfect42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfectlyImperfect42/profile) for doing a second pass through! Finally, thanks to [sparkly_butthole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/profile) who soothed my nerves. This fic would be impossible to read without you.
> 
> Without [cobaltmoony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/profile) there would be no fic. Her art is incredible. Thank you for being my inspiration.

Bucky had wanted to work with Steven Grant Rogers for years. His operatic adaptation of The Road had been brilliant, with dark, moody imagery and haunting soundscapes that had suited The Road’s tragic atmosphere. After buying the soundtrack, he’d sung snippets for days. It stuck in his head, found a place in his soul, and Bucky was hooked. Ever since, Bucky had kept up-to-date with Rogers’ career, taking pains to see his work whenever he had free time. Few other composers worked in English, Bucky’s first language, and fewer still created such genius works at such a young age.

But then his own career had taken off and there wasn’t much time for Bucky to see live theater. Often, he had to content himself with the live recordings. Live or recorded, though, Bucky always loved Rogers’ work. The characters stayed with him, the music stuck in his head, and the stories inspired him to daydream about what might happen if he were transported to those worlds.

Something about Rogers’ work called to him, and he decided early on he would star in one of Rogers’ masterpieces. Performing in a recreation wouldn’t be enough, though. Bucky needed to work _with_ Rogers himself. Less than a decade separated them, they were both masters of their craft, and in love with the beauty of sound. Bucky was certain they would create something epic. Something people would talk about for centuries to come.

Four years after graduating from Juilliard, Bucky finally got his chance. More than a chance. Rogers had gotten in contact with his agent, Sam Wilson, and requested him _personally_ for his new opera, _Love In A Time Of War_. Sam said Rogers had created the protagonist of his newest, greatest, modern opera with Bucky specifically in mind.

_With Bucky in mind!_

For days after hearing the news, Bucky floated on cloud nine. Rehearsals weren’t scheduled for another month, but Rogers’ people had sent over the music and he’d set eagerly to work. The story was heartbreakingly beautiful. Bucky would play Sebastian, a wealthy socialite born during the Great Depression, who falls madly in love with a man from the poorer side of Brooklyn. Evan, Sebastian’s paramour, would be played by the talented baritone Brock Rumlow, who Bucky had worked with a time or two, and was happy to work with again. He was a friend, a professional, and quite attractive; the latter two a requirement in a costar Bucky would be falling in love with on stage.

Mostly, Bucky practiced the opera’s finale; a solo he would have to carry on his own. This, he thought, must have been why Rogers wanted _him_. In the final scene, Sebastian returns from a war that had torn him from his love, only to find everyone believes him long dead. Evan is nowhere to be found among their old haunts, but Sebastian has little time to look. His family throw a grand masquerade to celebrate his miraculous return, inviting anyone and everyone to attend. That is where he meets Evan once again, but reuniting with his lover is bittersweet, as Sebastian soon learns that Evan is now married. Sebastian’s heart shatters and he sings a beautiful solo. A solo during which Bucky will have to convey every wretched, agonized feeling. If he can’t, Rogers’ work would fall flat.

The pride that he’d been chosen for this buoyed him until the first rehearsal. Bucky usually took his time on his appearance, but he put an extra effort in that morning knowing that he would be meeting Rogers for the first time. He would never admit it, but part of him hoped that the openly gay (and single) composer would want him for more than just his talent.

Maybe in his bed.

At the stage door, Bucky checked his eyeliner one last time. Only once his camera phone had confirmed it wasn’t smudged did he open the door. Work was well underway on the set, as evidenced by the noise pouring in from backstage. It would stop once rehearsal began, but until then the talented stage hands would make the most of the time they had, as would the costume designers and prop masters working in the Met’s back rooms. Bucky knew that without them, all the work he and the orchestra would do would mean little.

From the labyrinth backstage, Bucky worked his way to the main stage where they were to rehearse. Bucky had arrived early, hoping to get a moment with Rogers before the other cast members arrived. His luck held; Rogers was seated in the stalls, talking quietly with a sound tech Bucky remembered from his last performance here. In person, the man was everything Bucky expected. Dark blond hair, not long enough to brush his collar, but enough he had to slick it back to keep it from falling into his eyes. A darker beard covered his jaw, soft and shining in the theater’s dim lights, making Bucky itch to feel it between his fingers. Rogers’ long-sleeved, white button-up was professional, but understated, and looked good with his black jeans. Most striking of all, Bucky could see the clear, bright blue of his eyes all the way from where he stood.

With a start, Bucky realized he was staring. He diverted his attention, taking in the remarkable theater so many people had dreamed of performing in. Even empty, it radiated majesty. Red velvet covered most surfaces on all five levels; even the banisters were wrapped in the soft, plush fabric. The box seats lined the left and right walls, looming forward over the orchestra pit. Ten chandeliers hung from the intricately carved, golden ceiling, each a delicate starburst of crystal. Bucky loved the decadence, but mostly he appreciated that, standing here, he knew all his hard work had truly paid off.

The sound tech finally walked away and Rogers turned toward him with a polite expression. Closer up, he was even more striking. Six years Bucky’s senior, he was just into his thirties and he wore it well. Grey silvered his dark blond beard and glinted with the gold in his hair. Wrinkles split his face at the corners of his mouth and the edges of his eyes, suggesting he smiled a lot, though he wasn’t smiling now. His nose was somehow as beautiful as his eyes; crooked, long, and strong.

A smile spread helplessly over Bucky’s lips as he stepped eagerly forward, arm outstretched to shake Rogers’ hand. He was so happy he felt like he was floating.

“Hi,” he gushed, the word as breathless as though he had run to get here. “I’m so happy to finally be meeting you in person. I’ve followed your career for _years_.” He realized he had been shaking Rogers’ hand for too long and dropped it to fumble his script out of his bag. “And now we get to work together; it’s a dream come true! I mean, the finale! Everything, really, but - god - the way you wrote Sebastian’s final parting with Evan actually made me cry. There was just this one thing I noticed in the first act - the bridge scene where Sebastian professes his true love. It’s the pacing; it just seems a little rushed -”

“I’m sorry,” Rogers interrupted. “Who are you?”

Not certain he had heard the question right - because Rogers had _asked_ for him - Bucky looked up to find Rogers glaring at him which… That wasn’t right. That wasn’t how their first meeting was supposed to go.

“I’m… I’m James?” No change in Rogers’ stormy expression. “James Barnes? Th-the tenor?”

Still nothing.

Bucky didn’t understand. How did Rogers not know who he was if he’d had Bucky in mind when writing the part of Sebastian? Sebastian, the main character in Rogers’ opera.

“I - I’m singing Sebastian?”

“Are you,” Rogers said coldly. It wasn’t a question. “And you think being the star means you get to criticize my work?”

Bucky’s jaw dropped and his stomach swooped toward his toes.

“What? N-no-”

Bucky was completely thrown; the moment exploding around his ears. The anger hadn’t faded from Rogers’ posture, making Bucky take a step back as he tried to think of something that would salvage the conversation.

Rogers didn’t give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Then you thought you could come here and tell me how to direct my own opera?”

“No!” Bucky shook his head hard enough his hair flew into his eyes. “I just… The scene just needs-”

Rogers cut him off again.

“I will decide what the scene needs, Mr. Barnes. You may be the star, but I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. _This_ opera has no place for divas.”

Bucky froze, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, teeth grinding together as the hurt at that particular insult turned to anger. Not only did Bucky hate being called a diva, he hated how dismissive Rogers was of his opinion. With a masters degree and dozens of successful performances under his belt, Bucky’s opinion wasn’t _trivial_. He wasn’t a composer, but he _knew_ music. He knew it well enough to know when a scene was rushed.

Yet, he kept his mouth shut tight. Rogers was not as he had expected, not even a little. Instead of being open to the opinions of the cast he had hired to carry out his vision, he was happier to throw insults before even shown an example of what Bucky had seen. In the end, it wasn’t Bucky’s job to make a beautiful thing perfect. It was his job to perform. Bucky was a professional. If Rogers wanted to do everything on his own, Bucky would do his job - do it better than anyone else - and that would be it.

Cooling his tone, Bucky said, “I assure you, Dr. Rogers, I am no diva.”

Whatever Rogers would have said didn’t look to be kind, but he didn’t get the chance to say it. The stage door banged open and in strode Brock Rumlow with a few others, all dressed against the wind outside. Bucky didn’t know them, but he could guess that they were the rest of the cast. Brock looked as good as usual, his hair cut short to emphasize his crooked nose. The imperfection was endearing thanks to his warm, brown eyes, and olive complexion.

“Bucky!” Brock called, throwing his arms out as he jogged down the stairs.

Pushing aside the dull ache in the pit of his stomach, Bucky smiled as he greeted Brock in kind. Their hug was hard and brief, hands clapping loudly on backs in the otherwise silent theater. It was good to know at least someone was happy to have him there.

“How’ve you been?” Brock asked as they stepped apart.

“Excited.” Bucky didn’t add, ‘ _until recently_ ,’ even though he wanted to. “Especially hearing you were cast as Evan! It’s been, what? A year?”

“Sounds about right,” Brock agreed, grinning. “This is going to be great!”

Turning away, he called, “Steve!” and Bucky purposely redirected himself toward the others rather than risk renewing eye contact with Rogers - who was apparently friends with Brock. That stung more than Bucky wanted to admit.

“Hi,” Bucky said to a woman in her forties. “I’m James Barnes; Bucky.”

“Christin Aaron,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’ll be your mother.”

Laughing, Bucky took her hand and shook.

“Delighted.”

“Miles Sorren,” said a dark haired man at Christin’s side. Grey had gathered at his temples, giving him a fatherly look. “I’ll be playing Gus Olinski.”

_Sebastian’s father_ , Bucky thought as they traded handshakes. Aloud he said, “A pleasure.”

Bucky continued through the rest of the cast - Sebastian’s war friends, Evan’s wife - as well as the standbys. Besides Rogers, Bucky got on with everyone, at least the introductions were friendly and pleasant, which was a relief. If there was going to be drama between himself and the composer/director, he wanted to get along with the rest of his colleagues. Then he would be able to enjoy what they were creating. As much as Rogers was a jerk, he was still a genius, and Bucky wanted to do justice by _Love In A Time Of War_. After all, it was beautiful and he would be the perfect Sebastian.

Whether Rogers liked it or not.

\----

With anger still swirling in his chest, Steve watched Barnes greet Brock Rumlow. After dealing with Barnes’ presumptuousness, he was surprised to see that Brock appeared to be friends with someone with such diva qualities. Steve was a huge fan of Brock, had cast him in multiple productions, and each had been successful. Brock was a no-nonsense, talented, and attractive man. If he hadn’t been as straight as an arrow, Steve was certain they would have made a great couple.

“Steve!” Brock called after an affectionate embrace with Barnes. Holding his arms out, he stepped forward for one from Steve, and though he was still annoyed, Steve moved to give it. He wasn’t so much of an ass as to take out his anger with Barnes on a friend.

“How’ve you been? Steve asked after a tight squeeze. “You look good.”

“You, too, man.” Brock was grinning a mile wide. He gestured to the others, exchanging names and roles, shaking hands. “Looks like you’ve got a good group again.”

“Mm,” Steve agreed non-committedly. “So you know Barnes?”

Brock looked at him in surprise.

“You _don’t_?”

That was an unexpected answer, but Steve shook his head honestly.

“My casting director and Peggy-”

“Your manager?”

“My manager - suggested him for the part. They _agreed_ , which happens so rarely that _I_ agreed.”

Brock was still staring at him in disbelief.

“You’re an opera composer and you don’t know who James Barnes is?”

The tone of the question made Steve shift uncomfortably. Keeping track of who was who in the opera scene had always exhausted Steve. Once he was ‘big enough’ he had stopped, now relying on Peggy to help him navigate the work functions he couldn’t avoid. The only downside to not keeping abreast on his own was moments like these when he didn’t have Peggy murmuring in his ear.

Steve admitted, “I didn’t handle casting for a reason. Wanna fill me in?”

Brock gave him a look that suggested he knew Steve had been given a memo about all of them. It also said he knew Steve hadn’t read a word of it. He was a good friend, though, so he didn’t call Steve on it.

“James came up a few years ago. He’s been performing worldwide since. I’ve had the pleasure of staring in several pieces with him. He’s a tenor,” Steve nodded knowingly as the part of Sebastian was written for a tenor, “and dedicated to his craft. I would have taken the part because it’s you, but he cinched it.”

Pursing his lips, Steve looked back to Barnes and his cast. Objectively speaking, he was beautiful, with long brown hair that he had pulled into a loose tail at the base of his skull. It had a healthy shine and accented his soft features where it had come loose around his face. His bone structure was especially striking, just the kind of beauty theater loved. _Now_ he was polite enough, but Steve couldn’t forget what had happened just moments before. It took some balls to approach a composer as accomplished as Steve and tell them their work wasn’t up to snuff. More than that, Barnes had thought he could _fix_ it. Just like that. A complete stranger had thought he had the right to critique Steve.

Steve wasn’t a stranger to criticism, but that was on his completed work. Work that had been practised for a month or more and was accompanied by a live orchestra. Even then it was still hard to hear someone dislike something he had poured his soul into, but it was easier knowing he had done everything he could to make it his best. At that point it was done and he couldn’t make it better if he wanted. It wouldn’t be a new work, fresh out of his mind, where the only accompaniment had ever been his piano and the symphony in his head. When his work was this raw, he trusted only one person enough to tear into his work. Peggy, his manager, who he had known for decades. Certainly not some tenor he didn’t know from Adam.

Shaking his head, Steve made himself focus. They had work to do. Meditating on James Barnes and his own bruised ego could come later, at home, over a bottle of wine.

“All right,” he called, interrupting the performers’ chit-chat, “let’s get started. There’s a lot to do and only four weeks to get it done.” Everyone was looking at him so Steve took a fortifying breath. “I want to start at the top, so Brock, Mr. Sorren, Mrs. Aaron -”

“Christin, please,” the smiling woman insisted.

“Christin,” Steve amended with a small smile; she seemed nice enough. “Mr. Barnes, you as well. You’ve had the script for a month so let’s see where we’re at.”

The four climbed up to the stage while the rest of the cast took seats in the stalls. Steve sat front-and-center, five rows back, leaning his elbows on his knees. Excitement and trepidation began to stir in his stomach at the prospect of finally seeing his work come to life.

“Christin, Mr. Sorren, Mr. Barnes, you’ll be coming in from stage right. Brock, you’ll already be present with the chorus.” He flapped a hand dismissively. “We’ll get to that later. For now, I want you four to perform the scene without any more direction than that.” Christin and Miles glanced at each other uncertainty, but James and Brock just nodded. To the former two he added, “I want to see what you do with it.”

Brock walked upstage as Christin and Miles hesitated. James, however, caught both his parents by surprise and pulled them off-stage. Steve nodded to the pianist who would be accompanying them during rehearsals and sighed as the music started. A slow swell of upbeat notes; the naive joy that embodied this part of Sebastian’s life.

Barnes jogged on stage as the sound crested, grinning like the excited young man he was supposed to be playing. Brock looked to lean on thin air, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets, as Christin and Miles strolled in after Barnes. Christin’s arm was linked with Miles’ and Steve smiled. They looked like Guy and Darla Olinski, following their headstrong son down a busy street with indulgent smiles on their lips. When the set was complete, they would stroll past a facade of old townhouses, perhaps a horse drawn-carriage going in an opposite direction to push home the time period. The rest of the cast would bustle along with them, strangers on the streets of 1938 New York City.

Having reached stage left, Barnes turned and jogged back to his parents. Darla took her son’s hands and Steve smiled even before she began to sing. They looked the part: the doting mother and her child. Christin proved to have been practicing, as Darla’s aria was perfect, filling the theater with her love for her intelligent, bright-eyed son and her dreams for him: a loving wife, large home, and beautiful children. Miles joined in, embodying Guy’s slightly clumsy, but wholehearted wish that his son would find a job as a banker, or a politician, and be set for life.

Even though he wasn’t singing, Steve reluctantly had to admit that Barnes was a marvelous actor. He kissed Christin’s cheek sweetly and listened to his parents. He was Sebastian: a young man placating his elders. Peggy and the casting director had certainly chosen wisely. So far, they didn’t need much direction to embody their new roles, and Steve, despite the initial hiccup, couldn’t be happier.

“Mamma, Father,” Sebastian said as the song ended, “one day, all your dreams for me will come true, I know it.”

“But?” Darla asked, sharing a knowing glance with her husband.

Sebastian took her hand.

“But I’m just eighteen. Let me enjoy my summer before I go off to school. Let me be young before I settle down and start a family.”

Darla cupped his cheek and said fondly, “Headstrong boy.”

“I suppose one more summer won’t hurt,” Guy declared with a chuckle as he took his wife's hand. “Come, darling, let us allow our son to ‘enjoy his youth’ as he is so eager to do it.”

They walked offstage as Sebastian waved. Brock took his cue, walking to James with a strut that was all Evan; confident and cocky.

“Do you even know what living is?” he asked, smirking at Sebastian.

Sweetly puzzled, Sebastian asked, “I beg your pardon?”

“I heard you,” Evan waved to where his parents had disappeared. “Eager to be young, to live your life, but look at you!” A hand waved up and down, taking in all that Sebastian would be once the costume department was finished. Obviously rich and well-dressed, especially compared to Evan’s simple clothing. “I bet you wouldn’t know fun if it bit you!”

Sebastian laughed, intrigued instead of insulted, and stepped closer to Evan.

“Okay, so show me. I’ll buy you a drink and you’ll show me how to have fun.”

“Buying a stranger a drink?” Evan laughed, holding a hand to his chest. “In the middle of the day? Maybe you do know how to have fun.”

It was Sebastian’s turn to laugh, a rich and inviting sound.

“Maybe I do!” Sebastian spun around. “It’s my last summer before I have to become serious about my future, find a wife, then become as boring as my parents. Why, spending an afternoon with you sounds like the best use of my time, don’t you agree?”

With that, he launched into song, startling Steve with the clarity and purity of his voice as he sang. The words were half-flirtation, half-declaration of the joy of being young and carefree. Sebastian embodied both, and his attraction to Evan was innocent. Evan joined in, his voice blending beautifully, their voices rising and falling to fill the theater with the sound of a new meeting, an adventure yet to come, just as Steve had pictured it. The emotion they put behind their words was everything he could have hoped for. For this moment, they were two men soon to fall in love, and Steve was filled with the joy that only came with seeing his creation come to life.

The song ended and Sebastian held out his hand. Evan took it and they jogged offstage, hand-in-hand. The cast burst into applause and Steve joined in without hesitation. Barnes might be an insolent punk, but he was a _talented_ , insolent punk. Steve would put up with him to have that voice as his Sebastian.


	2. The Bridge Scene

After rehearsals had ended and Bucky had said his goodbyes - to everyone except Rogers - he sent an emergency text to his friend’s group chat. These four were the few people Bucky could call close with how busy he was. They’d met in Julliard and they had stuck with him despite how infrequently he could get together.

 **Bucky** : Need to decompress. Meet at Le Vengeur?

 **Nat** : We have practice

Bucky’s heart sank.

 **Clint** : Be there at 6?

 **Tony** : So long as you help defend the violins. Otherwise i'll be there at 8

Grinning, Bucky checked his watch. Six was five hours from then. He could go home, take a shower, practice some, and maybe catch a nap. Rehearsal had started at nine, so he could use the downtime. He was just keyed up from his initial interaction with Rogers and wasn’t sure he _could_ relax, thus the need to decompress. Still, six meant he and the others would have a bit before Bucky had to turn in and he wasn’t going to pass that up. Especially not when he had to see Rogers again, bright and early tomorrow.

 **Bucky** : You can count on me! See you then

 **Nat** : ( ´ ▽ ` )b

Tucking his phone into his pocket, Bucky headed for the subway and tried not to think about all the ways Rogers had failed to live up to his image. He managed long enough to get home, feed himself, and get clean. Then he tried to practice and couldn’t stop hearing Steve calling him a diva, or stating that his opinion was unimportant. That his opinion on his _craft_ , what he’d dedicated his life to, was useless.

Bucky hadn’t gotten to where he was by being a robot that spat notes and obeyed the director’s every instruction without thought. He had a masters from _Julliard_ , was fluent in Italian, German, and French; and had studied with masters like Plácido Domingo and Andrea Bocelli. He didn’t just repeat his lines and sing on command. He embodied his characters, bringing them to life on stage. Yes, he was a bit young, but he had proven himself across the globe. Rogers was no less accomplished, but the way he had dismissed Bucky had crawled into Bucky’s brain and wouldn’t be dislodged.

He wasn’t a diva. He _wasn’t_.

In the end, Bucky left for Le Vengeur early and snagged a table for four before any of his friends showed. He liked the place because it was cozy, but not too loud, with low light and candles chasing away the chill that blew in every time the door opened. It was also a cross between a coffee shop and a pub, so all four of them could get a drink to enjoy.

At five after, while Bucky was nursing his second cup of mint tea, a gust of air blew in with Clint, Natasha, and Tony on its heels. Natasha’s normally coiffed red hair flew around her in a frizzy ball of loose strands. Tony somehow managed to look _better_ wind blown. Clint… Clint had a candy wrapper stuck in his hair.

Bucky half-stood and waved to get their attention, and they squeezed through the tables, violin cases clutched to their chests. Knowing how important those instruments were, not to mention expensive and delicate, Bucky had picked a table in the back corner so they could stash the cases where no one would be able to accidentally bump them. He took them as they were passed to him amid breathless, bright greetings, and tucked them into safety.

“How was practice?” he asked Natasha as Tony went to put in their orders.

Natasha threw her black, woolen coat over the back of her chair, plucked the trash from Clint’s hair, and sat down all while giving him a look that said his question wasn’t going to distract her from why he’d summoned them. The light turned her white blouse yellow and darkened her black skirt so it faded into the low-lit room. She seemed to swim into being at the waist, a smoky enchantress called into existence. It fit, seeing as she at least appeared to be a mind-reader most days.

“Incredible,” Natasha said as Clint said, “Oh, thanks!”

Bucky chuckled, turning his cup in his hands nervously. As much as he wanted to get everything off his chest, he didn’t want to talk about it. Or rather, he didn’t want to hear anyone side with Rogers. He didn’t think his ego could take it.

Since he knew there was little point in stalling, he said, “My own wasn’t… It was not what I expected.”

“What?” Clint half-shouted. He’d left his coat on when he’d sat down and struggled to get out of it now that he was seated. “Your perfect bromance with Rogers didn’t go as you’d dreamed?”

Bucky sighed.

“Not even a little.”

Tony returned with a shouted, “Drinks!” and set a coffee before Clint, a beer by his own chair, and a White Russian before Natasha. Flipping his chair around, he straddled it and smiled at Bucky while nudging Bucky’s empty cup with a fingertip. “So what’s the emergency, Bucko?”

Bucky took a deep breath and said, “Rogers called me a diva and said my opinion on the music was unimportant as he’s the composer and director and will let me know how to perform.”

As he’d gone on, Clint’s mouth had opened wider and wider, closing with a snap as he finished. Some of the anxiety faded from Bucky’s stomach. 

“Holy shit, dude,” Clint whispered.

Tony blurted, “You’re not serious.”

“Tell us what happened,” Natasha demanded.

Bucky did as he was told, going so far as to mimic Rogers’ stance and facial expressions. His friends were both amused and appalled in turn - much to Bucky’s relief - but kept quiet until he had finished describing the disastrous encounter in all it’s grisly details. 

“He’s your _hero_ ,” Clint protested when Bucky had finished.

Bucky nodded morosely.

“Which is why I can’t get what he said out of my head. I wanted…” Embarrassed, Bucky finished his thought by mumbling into his cup, “I wanted him to like me.”

Natasha covered his hand with her own with a soft, “Oh, honey.”

 

“I don’t get it,” Tony said. “I thought he asked for you specifically for this part. Why wouldn’t he at least listen to what you had to say?”

Bucky shrugged, wishing he knew the answer to that question himself.

“Well, fuck ‘im,” Tonly declared, swinging his drink into the air and downing it like the words were a toast.

Natasha nodded, sipping her own drink in toast as Clint agreed wholeheartedly.

“Yeah!” Fuck ‘im! He’s a great composer and conductor and he has a great ear and has a nice smile - Ow!”

Natasha had cut him off by jabbing him in the ribs.

“ _But_ ,” Tony hurriedly picked up, “what matters is that we’re finally performing together again. It’s been nearly three years since we were all on the same production.”

“At least,” Bucky admitted, trying to take heart in the words. “I think it was _The Magical Flute_ , wasn’t it?”

Natasha nodded before reminding him, “Not all of us can travel like you.”

“It’s good to have you here again,” Clint translated.

“It’s good to be home,” Bucky agreed. Shaking himself, he smacked his palms on the tabletop. “I’m not a diva. Rogers is a jerk. And you should never meet your idols. Now that that’s cleared up, catch me up on all the latest gossip.”

Natasha’s deep red lips split in a smirk.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Tony groaned.

“Oh no.”

“ _Tony_ made a new friend,” Natasha crooned. “His name is Bruce -”

“Stop,” Tony pleaded, making Clint giggle.

Natasha’s smirk just grew.

“He’s very cute, just joined the orchestra, and has this whole soft-spoken, nerd vibe going for him.”

Bucky smiled at Tony.

“Are you going to ask him out?”

Tony glared pointlessly at Natasha as she was only going to feed upon the ire.

“I may,” he huffed. For a moment he tried to hold the irritated expression, but cracked and smiled at Bucky. “He is _really_ cute.”

“And talented,” Clint added.

“But not more than Clint,” Natasha stated.

Bucky laughed.

“No one is more talented than Clint.”

“Hey!” Tony protested with a squawk. 

Clint grinned.

“Come for my chair, Tony. _Come for it_.”

“I might!” Tony crossed his arms. “When you’re sick.”

Everyone laughed, and Bucky finally felt the tension of the day fall from his shoulders. No, today hadn’t gone as he’d dreamed, but he still had a great opera to perform in with his incredible friends. They were right, that was what really mattered.

\----

Bright and early the next morning had Bucky back at the Met. This time, he ignored Rogers, greeting only the rest of the cast. Brock noticed, but he merely gave Bucky a sideways glance. That was one thing Bucky liked about the guy: he never involved himself in other people’s drama. Since he didn’t want to cause more, he didn’t explain, and continued to pretend everything was perfect.

For this rehearsal, they started with the bridge scene, now infamous in Bucky’s mind. He was apprehensive for obvious reasons, but also because he hadn’t been able to practice the day before. It wasn’t like he didn’t know his part, but he liked to have it fresh for rehearsal. Now it was too late, but Bucky had needed the confidence his friends had given him more than anything else. Unfortunately, understanding that didn’t make him more comfortable.

The set wasn’t ready, of course, so Brock and Bucky stood on an empty stage as Rogers said, “From the top.”

“What a day!” Bucky said, letting Sebastian’s happy smile slip onto his lips as he took on his role, spreading his arms out wide as if he could encompass the whole stage.

Brock’s posture slumped just enough, gaining a cocky edge as he became Evan and laughed. Evan caught Sebastian’s hand and pulled him close.

“A drink, he’d said,” Evan’s hands rested loosely on Sebastian’s hips. “Show me how to have fun. More like a day chasing you about the borough.”

Sebastian leaned forward, his hands skimming down Evan’s well-developed biceps.

“Like you didn’t enjoy every minute. I did. I’ve never met anyone like you, Evan.”

Shrugging, Evan stepped back and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Plenty of people know the city, Sebastian. Anyone could have shown you what I did.”

“Not anyone.” Sebastian stepped forward and held out a hand to Brock. “You did.”

The music swelled, powerful and passionate, as Sebastian took a breath and sang. He sang to Evan of adventure, of living life for every moment you took a breath, and filling it with what truly mattered: love. Evan wasn’t having it, though, singing of how different they were. Sebastian was from a rich family while Evan was from the wrong side of town, barely keeping food on his table. No matter the truth, Sebastian didn’t want to hear it. He was young and in love, in search of his soulmate, and convinced that Evan was it. Their voices chased each other, each insisting they were right. Evan insisted Sebastian’s parents wouldn’t accept it. Sebastian declared his station didn’t matter, and their differences were nothing compared to their love. 

In the end, Sebastian won Evan over with a kiss and a softly sung, “Don’t let your future pass you by.”

“My future?” Evan asked, clasping Sebastian’s hand in his own.

“I know you are mine,” Sebastian insisted, caressing Evan’s cheek. “You feel it, Evan. Us; we could be a real love story!”

“You’re a fool,” Evan laughed.

“But I want to be _your_ fool.”

Evan shook his head, but smiled at Sebastian like he had hung the moon.

“Okay,” he said and laughed. “Okay!”

“Together?” Sebastian asked.

“To the future,” Evan promised.

“Together, to the future.”

They kissed, gentle and sweet, the first taste of a new love. When they parted, they leaned their foreheads together as slight applause echoed in the theater. Bucky and Brock turned, smiling, but Bucky’s died with one look at Rogers. Irritation was writ large across his features visible beneath steepled fingers.

“Oh, come on!” Brock called as Bucky’s stomach clenched. “It was good!”

Rogers grunted.

“The writing is bad.”

Bucky blinked, not sure he had heard him correctly. From the look Brock shot him, he didn’t know what to make of the words either. On the one hand, Bucky did feel vindicated. The love scene needed to convince the audience of their passion, or the later tragedy would fall flat when the audience didn’t care if they lasted. Some would root for Sebastian and Evan, but not everyone. 

On the other hand, Bucky expected that being right wouldn’t help his relationship with Rogers become any easier.

Rogers must have realized everyone was staring, waiting for him to do, or say something else because he abruptly looked around and blushed. 

“Right, that was good, but I’m going to rework it. Head off for today and I’ll have something good - new - for you tomorrow.”

Brock again looked to Bucky, this time in disbelief. Bucky shrugged. This wasn’t something he had experienced before, his conflict with Rogers notwithstanding. Changes to lines, chords, or tempo were common during rehearsal, but not entire rewrites. Then again, this was the first time Bucky had worked with a director who was _also_ the composer so maybe it made sense. Either way, Bucky knew the scene needed work.

“Okay,” Brock said, “you’re the boss.”

There was no arguing with Brock on that score. Everyone began gathering up their things, tucking their scripts away, and making sure they hadn’t misplaced anything. 

As they headed offstage to their own things, Bucky asked Brock, “You wanna practice some of the other duets at my place?”

Brock nodded.

“Good idea. Can still put in some work today.”

 _And make up for last night_ , Bucky thought. Outloud he said, “I’d like to do a lot of work on the goodbye. When Sebastian goes off to war?”

“Yeah, those harmonies will be tricky.”

Glad they were on the same page, Bucky grabbed his script, water bottle, and backpack and chanced a glance at Rogers. He was scowling at his script, fingers tapping on his knee. Focus oozed off him in waves; his pinched brow to his squinted eyes, to his pursed lips. Even the hand he continuously stroked along his beard spoke of a thoughtfulness that Bucky wished he didn’t find as attractive as he did. 

After everything, he even had the urge to go over there and offer his help. The scene _wasn’t_ terrible, it just needed a little fine tuning. But Bucky didn’t think either comment would be welcome. Nor would an offer of assistance.

Noticing his gaze, Brock said, “Don’t worry about him. He’ll figure it out; he always does. It’s the perfectionist in him.”

“Has he done this before?” Bucky asked curiously. “A re-write this far into the game?”

Brock shook his head.

“No, but he’s under a lot of pressure, you know?”

Absently, Bucky nodded, then turned away. He tried to do as he had been told and put Rogers out of his mind by recalling that offering to help would only encourage Rogers’ opinion of him as a diva. Which he wasn’t. So, if Rogers was too prideful to accept assistance, then so be it; it wasn’t Bucky’s job to fix Rogers’ writing.

\----

It was nearly eight pm by the time Steve got home. He had spent the morning adjusting the bridge scene. It still wasn’t right, so he had considered getting someone else to take over the orchestral rehearsal, but hadn’t. They needed the group practice, and had too much to go over collectively to cancel for everyone. Just because he wanted to focus on the bridge scene didn’t mean doing so would be acceptable. 

Steve meant to finish the scene at home, but his mood hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Waiting in the lobby was Peggy, called by the man who followed at Steve’s heels. Taller than Steve, Thor was the embodiment of a dumb jock. Only, he wasn’t dumb, or a jock. Behind his huge muscles, loud voice, and boisterous attitude was one of the smartest minds Steve had ever known. He was already working on composing his first opera and it was phenomenal. Steve knew that sooner or later, he would be more successful than Steve himself. That didn’t mean he wanted to be followed home, or have Peggy thrust on him.

Taking one look at him, Peggy sighed and looked to Thor.

“I see what you mean.”

Steve sighed loudly.

“I never should have introduced you two.”

Rolling her eyes, Peggy picked up her white handbag and motioned to the elevator that would take them to Steve’s condo. As always, she was perfectly put-together. Her dark hair hung in soft rolls, pinned in place to stay out of her face, curls flowing down her back. Not a single strand was misplaced, but it didn’t have the crunchy look of a liberal use of hairspray. Her blood-red lips went well with her spotless, white coat and dress, not that Steve could understand how she kept either clean in the city.

Knowing when he was beaten, Steve led Peggy and Thor to the elevator. On the seventh floor, his condo didn’t have the best view, but the building was warm in winter, cool in the summer, and had a nice gym. The security wasn’t terrible, either. The condo itself was big, for New York City, with two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a living room. The furniture was modern in the living room, but dark and homey in his bedroom. The second bedroom had been converted into his studio, and soundproofed for the neighbors. Steve had worked hard to afford it, and was proud to call it his own. It was the first home he had had since his mother died.

Having been there often, Peggy tossed her purse over Steve’s black couch and strode into the kitchen to raid Steve’s wine selection. Thor took her coat as she fished a corkscrew from a drawer and hung both his and hers in the hall closet. Steve set Thor’s violin safely on his coffee table before claiming a seat at his steel kitchen table. 

“Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?” Peggy asked as she poured three glasses of Steve’s favorite red.

“There is little choice in resisting, my friend,” Thor said as he took a seat on Steve’s left, facing the window that looked out on the street and the condos across from Steve’s building.

Despite knowing Thor was right - or maybe _because_ he was - Steve heaved another deep sigh and fixed Thor with a seriously displeased look. Thor didn’t waiver, meeting his gaze with a sympathetic look of his own that made Steve feel like a jerk. The guy was just worried about him.

Still, Steve hedged only that, “Practice with the singers didn’t… go well.”

Delivering the three glasses and the bottle of wine without being in danger of spilling a drop, Peggy took the remaining seat at the table. Steve took his glass and forced himself not to chug down the entirety of it. He still wanted to get some work done later.

“Elaborate,” Peggy instructed as he hadn’t. “Is it James again?”

“James?” Thor asked. “James Barnes?”

“No, it wasn’t Barnes,” Steve rubbed his hand across his face. “Well, sort of.” To Thor he said, “Barnes showed up first day of rehearsals and told me the bridge scene was rushed.”

Crossing her legs, Peggy added, “Steve didn’t take that well.”

Thor shook his head.

“I Imagine not. It is his first time directing.”

Steve let out a breath, his shoulders slumping forward.

“I want this to go well.”

Peggy fixed him with a firm eye.

“Being so stressed you don’t learn who your cast is will not help it go well.”

While Steve knew she was right - as he had the last time they had discussed Barnes - he wasn’t yet willing to agree that he had overreacted. Who walked up to someone and told them their writing was bad? Assholes, that’s who.

Instead of point out - again - that not knowing who Barnes was, or of his pedigree, hadn’t given Barnes the right to offer unsolicited advice, Steve said, “Turns out Barnes was right. The scene -” to Thor he clarified, “The bridge scene is rushed. Sebastian and Evan go from zero to one hundred, and Evan just… _agrees_ with Sebastian. I have to rewrite it.”

The declaration was met with startled silence. Peggy blinked at Steve over her wine glass while Thor frowned down at his own.

Slowly, Thor asked, “And you’re sure you aren’t simply agreeing out of insecurity? You have been… sensitive with this one.”

Sighing yet again, Steve said, “I know I’ve been difficult, but directing means a lot to me. If it doesn’t go well -” Steve shook his head as if he could shake away the thought. “It has to go well.”

Thor nodded.

“I know, my friend. I meant no criticism. Only, you are so wound up that with this comment in your head I fear you would imagine a fault that is not actually there.”

To Steve’s surprise, Peggy didn’t disagree with Thor’s hypothesis.

“I -” Steve scowled. “What?”

Gently, Peggy said, “When you get a specifically upsetting bit of critique, you sometimes take fixing it too far.”

“Oh.” 

Steve paused and considered the comment. It was true that some criticism hit him hard. When it did, he obsessed over his work, trying to keep it from being, or make it, whatever the critic had said. Sometimes it made his writing better, and sometimes he re-wrote a scene six times. Was he doing that now? Had Barnes’ comment stuck in his head so a perfectly good scene was driving him mad?

Slowly, Steve shook his head.

“Not this time. I mean, maybe I wouldn’t have noticed before,” Peggy and Thor exchanged a look, “but he’s not wrong. Sebastian and Evan go from meeting to falling in love with nothing in between. Evan puts up a token resistance, and then just caves because... feelings?” Steve threw up his hands. “It’s _not_ good enough. It’s… It’s _lazy_ and I can do better. I can make the audience fall in love with them as they fall for each other!”

Peggy and Thor exchanged another look. This time, though, he shrugged and she smiled. The tension in Steve’s chest slipped away. Yes, he was stressed and a little manic, but he was going to make his opera perfect, damn it!

“You’re still crazy,” Peggy told him with a fond smile.

Thor chuckled.

“I do not believe that was in question.”

Steve opened his mouth to retort and froze as inspiration struck. _Crazy_ ; that was it! That was what the bridge scene needed; a little more doubt and a bit of adorable... _crazy_.

Springing from his seat, Steve narrowly missed toppling his barely-touched wine glass as he sprinted for his studio. “I’ve got it!” he cried, leaving Peggy and Thor laughing behind him. Steve gave it no mind. He could hear it now, ringing in his head. All he had to do was write it down.

Later, when his fingers ached and his back hurt, Steve would remember that he had left his friends sitting alone at his kitchen table. He thought they would understand - Peggy was his manager, and Thor a composer himself - but he vowed to make it up to them. After opening night, anyway. 

An apology text would suffice for now, sent as Steve crawled into bed. He had rehearsal in four hours and a brand new song for everyone to learn.

\----

After the previous day’s cancelation, Bucky wasn’t sure what to expect at rehearsal. Brock and he had made the most of the day, practicing the duet for the goodby scene, but Bucky hadn’t practiced on his own once Brock left. He didn’t know which scene they would work on the next day, after all. Instead, he had called Tony, Natasha, and Clint for another late-night meeting at Le Vengeur. Bruce, Tony’s new crush, had joined them in imagining what Rogers was up to and what might happen today. It had been fun - Bruce had fit right in - but they hadn’t come to an agreement.

Now, Bucky waited alone on stage. He had arrived early out of nerves and sat cross-legged on the black floor, looking out at the red seats. Someone was hammering somewhere to his left - perhaps building the Brooklyn Bridge for the scene that had already gone so disastrously - but it was the only sound around. All the lights were up, exposing all the hidden things the dark could disguise. It was so _different_ than on performance night.

Bucky loved it. He breathed with the pounding rhythm, memorized the seats, and waited. Footsteps heralded the approach of someone, and Bucky turned to see Brock waving at him. He smiled and Brock smiled back.

Dropping his backpack by Bucky, he sat as well. “Early bird gets the worm?” Brock asked. 

“More like anxiety scoots me out my door,” Bucky confessed. “You?”

“Wanted to see Steve. See if he was okay.” 

“So he’s not usually…” Bucky waggled his hand to indicate the weirdness of the previous day.

Brock shook his head.

“He gets stressed pretty easy, but to just bail on practice to rewrite an entire scene? Like I said yesterday, no. This is a new one.”

Tentatively, Bucky admitted, “I may have said something about the scene when we met.”

“Something?” Brock repeated.

“That it was rushed.” Plucking at the strap of his own backpack, he didn’t quite meet Brock’s eyes. “That was all I was able to say before he took my head off.”

“ _Ah_ , that explains a lot.”

Bucky looked up in surprise.

“It does?”

Nodding, Brock explained, “The way you ignored him yesterday. How angry he was the first day. How he never seems to speak to you. I bet he took what you said hard.”

Bucky spread his hands helplessly.

“I thought he wanted me here. _Me_ , specifically. Then he acted like he had no idea who I was.”

As if he’d expected that, Brock nodded.

“He didn’t.”

Blinking, Bucky repeated, “He didn’t.”

“Nope.”

“But… my manager said he’d written the part for me. That’s what they told us.”

Brock shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you. He didn’t do the casting so whoever told your manager that was talking out their ass.”

Hurt coiled in Bucky’s stomach and he looked back at his lap. “Oh,” he managed, and cringed at the pathetic sound of his own voice. He sounded crushed, which he was. Rogers, his hero, had no idea who he was. That first impression yesterday was all. It was hard to hold onto his anger and Rogers’ reaction when faced with such disappointment. 

“Hey…” Brock’s broad palm laid on his shoulder in comfort. “It ain’t personal…”

“I know.” Bucky forced a smile onto his face. “Guess that explains why he didn’t want my opinion, though.”

“Doesn’t mean he should have taken your head off.”

Bucky’s smile gained an ounce of truth, but he shrugged because he couldn’t take back the moment now. If he hadn’t thought Rogers wanted him for this part, he wouldn’t have given his opinion the way he had. Oh, he still would have given it, but after they’d gotten to know each other a little. He couldn’t take it back, though, and as much as he wished Rogers liked him that was unlikely to change. Bucky wouldn’t be fond of any stranger whose first words had been that he was off-key.

He changed the subject.

“I’m looking forward to the change. Wonder what he came up with.”

Brock laughed.

“You’re looking forward to learning a whole new scene last minute?”

Shrugging, Bucky answered even as Christin walked in and he waved at her, “The scene needed fixing. It’ll be exciting to see what he comes up with.”

“James Barnes, are you a _fan_ of our unpredictable composer?” Christin asked. The wind had blown her cheeks red, blending prettily with the red scarf wrapped about her neck. “I do detect a hint of eagerness to your tone.”

Bucky felt his face heat up in a blush.

“A bit,” he admitted.

“ _Oh_ ,” Brock blurted. Christin gave him a curious look, but he was kind enough to deflect by asking, “Aren’t you, Christin?”

Christin wrinkled her nose.

“I likely would have been if I could stand any version of _The Road_. It’s dreadfully upsetting, don’t you think?”

“I cried,” Bucky confessed. “Reading the book, and watching the movie, and at the opera.”

Blanching, Brock shook his head.

“I cannot take in the same story three different ways. Isn’t it boring? You already know the ending!”

“The opera was the best version,” Bucky said instead of attempting to justify his enjoyment. “Do I think Rogers can write more than tragedy? Sure, but he doesn’t seem to think so. It’s all he does.”

Christin spread her hands and declared, “I like to be entertained by my entertainment, not left despairing _or_ crying. Too much eyeliner for that.”

Laughing along with Brock, Bucky waved as yet more of the cast began filing in. They all moved into the seats, making small talk about the weather, their thoughts on rehearsal so far, and how long they thought the show might run after its Met performances. No one mentioned the elephant in the room: Rogers was late. It wasn’t unheard of, but after everything Bucky had learned about Rogers it _was_ unexpected. 

As the minutes ticked away to eight, then past, Bucky almost suggested calling to see if Rogers was all right. Only, he didn’t really know who to call. He could call his manager, who would know who to call, but that phone train would take time, time Rogers could use to show up, and then Bucky would be a diva all over again. No thank you.

Twenty past the hour - they were all checking their watches and cell phones every few minutes - Rogers ran onto the stage. Bucky was surprised by how disheveled he looked - his hair wasn’t neatly combed back and dark circles shadowed his eyes - but what struck him the most was the gleam in his eyes. Excitement shown from that blue gaze like a spotlight on a dark night.

“Sorry!” he shouted. “Sorry, everyone!” Hardly slowing down, he jogged down the stairs while fishing into the brown letterman bag slung over his shoulder. “I was up half the night - new scripts for everyone.” 

Bucky shared a look with Brock as Rogers yanked several reams of bound pages from his bag and started passing them out. Biting his lip to keep his questions to himself, Bucky took his own copy and flipped through to where the bridge scene used to be. As he did, Rogers kept talking.

“The changes are for James and Brock, but I made more for everyone. Okay,” he clapped his hands and Bucky looked up even as his fingers itched for a highlighter, “James, Brock, look over the new scene while everyone else, we’re going to skip straight to the masquerade. Give our leads some time to practice.”

Everyone except Steve and Brock headed to the stage. Bucky turned to get his highlighter - green, because he was that extra - and froze as two fingers touched and caught his bicep. Steve Rogers’ fingers. Jesus, why couldn’t he just accept that Rogers hated him and move on with his life? No, he stilled like a rabbit catching sight of a hawk’s shadow and turned slowly, heart beating rapidly. And all because of a brief, pausing touch.

The intensity of Rogers’ eyes made Bucky’s knees weak when their gazes locked. Helplessly, he wondered why Rogers couldn’t just _like_ him. Just a little.

“It’s an aria now. Your aria. Can you handle that?”

“Of course,” Bucky’s mouth said before he had a chance to think how that would come off. Rogers’ eyebrow twitched, but Bucky squared his shoulders and didn’t try to take it back. _Of course_ he could learn a solo this close to opening night. Hell, he could have learned it a _week_ before because he was good at this. That wasn’t arrogance, it was fact.

Rogers nodded after staring at him a moment longer.

“Okay. Brock -”

“Don’t apologize,” Brock interrupted, amusement lacing his tone. “Go whip everyone into shape. I’ll work with Bucky.”

That earned Brock a smile and Bucky had to stomp on the little voice that asked why _he_ hadn’t gotten one. It was fine. He would show Rogers just how damn good he was by killing this new aria. 

Brock muttered, “You two are ridiculous,” as Steve started calling to the rest of the cast.

Highlighter now in hand, Bucky flipped open the script and grumbled, “Shut up,” because he was witty as well as talented. “I’m going to kill this.”

With a snort, Brock plopped into the seat on Bucky’s left with an orange highlighter of his own. He didn’t tease Bucky, though, just got to work. As the rest of the cast started their choreography for the big masquerade scene, they hummed and highlighted, learning their parts as much as they could without actually practicing them. Brock, with only new lines to learn, had a lot less to do, but sat with Bucky as everyone else worked on stage.

Though he had been fired up before reading the script and seeing the new music, Bucky was positively vibrating afterward. He loved the new lines, but the _aria_ ; his solo was a masterpiece. Bucky was so into memorizing the lyrics, he didn't notice how much time was passing until Rogers clapped his hands and announced they were done for the day.

Startled, Bucky glanced up and about, making Brock laugh. 

“I always forget how intense you get,” Brock teased.

“I like the new scene,” Bucky said, shrugging a shoulder as they packed up their things. 

“James,” Rogers said as Bucky swung his bag over his shoulder, “stay a moment?”

“Um, sure.” Bucky shifted his bag on his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

Rogers adamantly shook his head.

“No, I just wanted to hear the new aria.”

“Um. I haven’t had time -”

“I want to hear it,” Rogers insisted. “Please. Just us, no one else.”

Swallowing nervously, Bucky glanced at Brock. The thumbs up he was given gave him some confidence, but he hadn’t been this nervous since his first auditions. 

“Sure.”

When the rest of the cast had left, Bucky trooped to the center of the stage with his script in hand. Brock had stayed, but Bucky didn't mind that. Instead of staying in the seats, Rogers went to the piano and gestured for their accompaniment to move, which really did not help Bucky’s nerves at all. He was also going to perform _with_ Rogers, for the first time. 

He had to _nail_ this.

Closing his eyes, Bucky listened to the opening strains of music. He took a deep breath, centered himself, and sang. “Crazy, they might call me crazy…” 

It was no longer a song about adventure and young love. It was about taking a chance, a risk, and throwing yourself into living life. Crazy, rushed, silly, or foolish - Sebastian didn’t care; his heart knew love when it felt it. If they dreamt a perfect world, they could try to reach it. Maybe he and Evan were too different. Maybe they wouldn’t work. If they didn’t try, they would never know for sure.

Bucky gave it his all. It wasn’t perfect, but he pressed on, letting the music flow through him. Gentle at first, the music was sweet and hopeful. Slowly, it built to a passionate plea, swelling to fill the theater with Sebastian’s dreams. The music stretched, begging the listener to believe in what the world could be, and trickled away like smoke.

As he took a breath after his final note, not a sound filled the theater. Brock was grinning at him, a wide smile full of pride. Rogers… Bucky had to take another breath as he met Rogers’ eyes. The excitement and intensity were still there, but they were _his_ now. _Bucky_ had brought Rogers’ work to life.

“Perfect.”

Flushing at Rogers’ words, Bucky looked down even as his heart flew into the rafters.


	3. Act Two

A few days later, Steve felt they had perfected the bridge scene. They’d need to keep running it, but it was as good as it was going to get. Which was pretty damn spectacular, if Steve said so himself. Barnes and Brock had brought his music to life. All that was missing was the backdrop that the prop masters were slaving away at: a twenty foot high image of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Steve was too busy re-writing another song than allowing himself to enjoy the moment. He knew he needed to slow down, that he was getting a little crazy, but the perfectionist in him couldn’t stop. He’d been up until one in the morning the previous two evenings re-working the music to the war scenes in the second act. At least this time he was only springing new music on the orchestra, but it was still a dick move considering they were supposed to be refining what was already in place, not learning something brand new.

And yet, Steve couldn’t help himself. _Love In A Time Of War_ was his masterpiece, his epic, the opera he just _knew_ would cement his name in the history books. Everything - absolutely _everything_ \- had to be perfect, and if that meant re-writing the whole damn opera, he would. At least he was now confident both the orchestra and the singers themselves could handle the last minute changes. They were incredible, every single one, including Barnes. 

Steve wasn’t so far gone to realize he was overworking this section. He needed another ear, someone to tell him if he was done, or if he needed to go a new way. Which was why he was listening to Peggy’s phone ring at ten at night. 

“No,” Peggy snapped once the ringing stopped and before Steve could so much as open his mouth. “Whatever it is, no. Go to bed, Steven.”

 _Steven_. Yikes. 

Steve said anyway, “I need someone to listen -”

“No,” Peggy interrupted.

“- to this one part -”

“ _No_.”

“- to see if I’ve got it.”

“Steve -”

“I’m too far in it. I need an outsider to listen.”

“I have said no to you _three times_ , Steve. You are abusing my affection for you.” Steve winced, but Peggy wasn’t done. “Do you know what I’m doing for you? Do you have any idea how busy I am promoting you? Promoting _your_ opera? You don’t like to network, Steve, and I do it for you. The least you owe me is respect.”

Steve swallowed before he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Peggy huffed and sighed. “I forgive you. I know how stressed you are, but this is unhealthy, and I highly doubt it will make your opera better. In all likelihood it will make it _worse_.”

“That’s why I need the outside ear.” Steve rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I’ll go to bed and… and see if Thor can help…”

“Thor has his own opera to focus on,” Peggy said sharply. Gentler, she said, “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you have a very experienced group working for you. James,” Steve groaned, “has had incredible success worldwide. Many composers would appreciate his input.”

Stubbornly, Steve shook his head even though Peggy couldn’t see him.

“I am not one. I’ll… find someone else.”

Peggy snorted.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“‘Night, Pegs.”

She hung up and Steve stared at his phone, then his scribbles on the sheet music. As usual, Peggy was right. Steve needed to let go. He needed to relax and let his work stand for itself before he ruined it himself. But to do that he had to get past this aria. It had to stop haunting him. Steve didn’t know who he was going to turn to, but it wasn’t going to be James Barnes. 

\----

“Sebastian!” 

Sebastian whirled at the sound of his voice. Staring with his heart in his throat on a train platform that hadn’t been created yet. Grand Central, bustling and busy, would surround him on opening night as he stood in a crisp, new army uniform. At the moment, the scene only existed in his head.

“Sebastian!” Evan called again as he pushed through the crowd. Sebastian could hardly believe it. After their fight, with Evan’s refusal to enlist even after Sebastian was drafted, he was here. The station stilled around him, their worlds narrowing to this moment, to only each other.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Sebastian admitted as Evan reached him. He reached out, put his hands just above Evan’s elbows to hold him the only way he could in public. “You’re here.”

Evan smiled at him, reaching up to hold onto Sebastian’s arms in kind.

“Of course I am. Like I’d let you leave without saying goodbye.”

Sebastian swallowed. 

“I have a horrible feeling, Evan. It’s twisting in my gut and I can’t chase it away.”

Evan squeezed his arms hard.

“It will be fine. The war will be over soon, you’ll see, and then you’ll come home. You’ll come home to me.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian said, but without conviction. 

Evan shook his head and briefly touched Sebastian’s cheek.

“Hey, don’t be like that. All you feel is nerves. Can’t be together in the future if you’re not there with me.”

“Are you sure you won’t -”

“Don’t,” Evan interrupted. “Not now. I don’t want to fight with you now. Not when…”

Neither of them spoke, letting the implications hang in the air. Not when this could be their last goodbye. Sebastian swallowed. 

“If you’re here,” he said, “nothing will keep me away. I’ll come home to you.”

Evan stepped as close as he dared.

“Promise?”

“I promise. Evan, I -” The train whistle sounded, breaking the moment. People rushed past once again, men and women, many in uniforms just like Sebastian’s. “I have to go.”

“Write me,” Evan commanded as Sebastian stepped away. “Write me every chance you can!”

The horrible feeling was back, and tears filled Sebastian’s eyes. He was sure this was the last time he would be with Evan, though he couldn’t say why. It filled his heart with an ache that spilled down his cheeks.

“Goodbye,” he sang as he slowly walked away.

Evan reached for him, but they were too far away to touch.

“Goodbye.” 

“Are you okay?” Rogers’ voice interrupted from the stalls. Brock was supposed to begin singing their duet, but Rogers sounded… alarmed. 

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Bucky swiped at the tracks on his cheeks and looked over at his director.

“Yeah, why?”

Rogers looked at him in disbelief, then looked to Brock.

“He’s okay?”

If he hadn’t been so confused by the question, Bucky would have been insulted. Something moved in his periphery and Bucky turned as Brock pressed a powder blue handkerchief to his cheek. Bucky sniffed - crying was rough on his sinuses - and smiled at the gesture. 

“Thanks. Where do you even buy handkerchiefs anymore?”

Brock shook his head, but smiled ruefully.

“He’s fine.”

Bucky huffed.

“I said I was, didn’t I?”

“Darling,” Christin called from the seats, “you were _crying_.”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky was growing annoyed until it occurred to him that the expression on everyone's face was worry. Whoops. “No, really, I’m fine. I was just… in the scene.”

“Apparently.”

The teasing note in his words had Bucky shooting Brock a small glare. It was hard to be annoyed with anyone who had given him an actual handkerchief to dry his tears, though. 

“Okay, um,” Rogers paused and Bucky looked back to him. He looked like he was floundering, which was unusual. “How about you dial that back and we run it again?”

Brock added, “Without making us worry about you?”

Bucky threw up his hands.

“Sebastian is supposed to be upset, isn’t he? He thinks he’s losing Evan, won’t ever see him again - or at least that’s his part of the duet. While Evan is just scared Sebastian will die, Sebastian is feeling a lot of emotion. I’m just conveying that!”

When Brock looked to Rogers, Bucky crossed his arms and looked offstage. He’d dial it back if that’s what he was told to do, but he didn’t think it fit the scene to be stoic. Sebastian _wasn’t_ stoic. He was recklessly driven by his emotions, unafraid of them, and he _loved_ Evan, a man he believed he would never see again.

“As long as it doesn’t affect your singing.”

Bucky almost blurted, “Huh?” but bit down on his tongue as his head snapped toward Rogers. The returning gaze was steady, as if Rogers actually trusted him to make the right call. 

Rogers gestured at his own nose.

“You’re all sniffly. That has to affect your singing.”

Bucky scowled and kept his arms crossed over his chest. It shouldn’t have felt so weird having Rogers’ trust to make this call. Most of his directors trusted him to make calls like this. Most, not Rogers. Bucky wasn’t sure what had changed. Without knowing, he was left wrong-footed while everyone waited for him to answer.

Scuffing his foot across the stage, Bucky said, “I’ll pull it back.”

“Just the crying,” Rogers ordered. “The emotion is perfect.”

Bucky hated the flush that began on his cheeks.

“Okay.”

“From the top!”

Bucky walked back to Brock and offered him back his handkerchief. 

“Guess I don’t need this then.”

Shaking his head, Brock took it and said, “Guess not. Do you need a minute to get all…?” Brock gestured to his face.

Bucky sniffed again and shook his head.

“Like we practiced. Watch the harmonies in the chorus.”

“ _You_ watch the harmonies in the chorus,” Brock shot back as he headed offstage so they could start again.

Bucky smiled and turned away, to stand as Sebastian would, waiting for his train. As he did, he caught sight of Rogers watching him thoughtfully. Rogers watched him a lot, of course, but this felt different. It felt heavier, like Rogers was weighing him in his mind. 

Then he heard Brock call, “Sebastian!” and he turned, letting Bucky fall away and becoming Sebastian again.

\----

“You were right,” Steve told Peggy as she swept into his condo in a navy blue dress peppered with red and white hibiscus. 

Laughing, she kissed his cheek and said, “You always know just the right thing to say to a girl.” Then she continued her whirlwind movement, sweeping into the kitchen to put the huge bag of take-out on the counter and the wine in the freezer. Steve took her purse and put it on the table by the door where she couldn’t miss it when she left, then fetched plates and silverware.

“Thanks for dinner,” Steve said as he dished out cheap Chinese orange chicken, broccoli and beef, and steak fried rice onto his plate. There would be more than enough leftovers, which was because Steve wouldn’t be cooking when he was busy perfecting his work. Peggy was ensuring he had quick meals for at least a few days so he wouldn’t starve himself. “You are too good to me.”

Peggy smirked.

“You can thank me by telling me _why_ I’m right. I like that.”

Steve sighed, because while he knew admitting when you were wrong was an important part of being an adult, he never liked it.

“Barnes. I mean, James. He’s not… I overreacted a little.”

One of the reasons Steve loved Peggy was that she didn’t say, _I told you so_. She merely smiled at him like he was her favorite idiot. Which, Steve suspected, he might be.

“What changed your mind?”

Steve pictured James defending his creation’s feelings again and couldn’t help but smile.

“He gets it - Sebastian. He understands him so well, like no one - like _you_ do, Pegs. No one gets my characters like you do, but James does. You were right, he’s a perfect Sebastian.”

At the repetition of her favorite compliment, Peggy’s smile grew.

“I’m glad you can see it. He’s really very talented.” A brighter, teasing smile flashed at him. “And cute.”

Steve groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start. I admitted you were right; let’s leave it at that.”

Peggy’s teasing expression lasted another moment, before she bent her neck and said, “Oh, all right. So? How did you come to this epiphany?”

“You know the goodbye scene?” Steve asked, and Peggy nodded. “Right before the big duet, where Evan is singing at the station and Sebastian goes offstage then comes back onstage to join him on the train car set?” Peggy nodded again and gestured for him to get on with it. “Right before that, he… he made this acting choice to have Sebastian crying. I thought he was in pain, or something, it was so real - and when I questioned him, he defended _Sebastian_. Not himself, Pegs, Sebastian. He explained _Sebastian’s_ feelings and motivations, and he was spot on. It’s exactly what I think, too, and he’s my character.”

That ‘fond idiot’ smile was back on Peggy’s face.

“And he was right about the bridge scene.” It was Steve’s turn to nod, but he did so warily. “So perhaps you owe the man an apology?”

Steve narrowed his eyes over the fried rice.

“I said you were right; I didn’t say he wasn’t rude.”

Rolling her eyes with her entire upper body, Peggy playfully cried, “Come _on_ , Steve!” 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck as it started to heat up and admitted, “I’m not sure I’m ready to apologize yet.”

“You haven’t looked him up yet!” Peggy declared, stabbing her fork at Steve. “Oh my _god_ , Rogers, what is the matter with you?”

Caught, Steve sighed and let his fork clink against his plate as he set it down.

“I’ve been a bit busy, you know?” Peggy just narrowed her eyes, so he added, “I was planning on asking him about that change to the war scene I called you about the other day.”

Steve waited, and sure enough, Peggy’s expression slowly changed to mollified.

“I suppose a peace offering is in order, but an _apology_ will go further.”

“He was rude,” Steve grumbled.

Peggy sniffed.

“So were you.”

“I’ll make it up to him!”

With a sigh, Peggy turned back to her meal.

“Steve, you really need a minder. How many people do you need to make things up to now?”

Steve sighed.

“You, Thor, and James.”

Peggy nodded as though she expected the answer.

“You’re brilliant, and I know you make sacrifices for your work, but you can’t keep putting it before people.” She gave him a pointed look. “People you are supposed to care about. There is more to life than your art.”

Biting into a large piece of orange chicken, Steve said nothing. When he wasn’t creating a new opera, he knew Peggy was right. When he _was_ creating, though, it was hard to remember that in the face of his driving perfectionism. It was hard to remember that Peggy, or Thor, or James shouldn’t _need_ to forgive him, only that he was sure they would once his work was brought to life.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said once he’d swallowed. “I’m… I’ll try harder.”

Reaching across the table, Peggy grasped Steve’s hand.

“I love you, Steve. I only want what’s best for you.”

 _And I don’t want you to chase anyone else away_ , she didn’t say, and for that Steve loved her all the more.

Steve squeezed her hand.

“I know.”

\----

As they got closer to opening night, the days became more frantic. Between rehearsals they had to fit in costume fittings as well as learn the sets as they were completed. A full dress rehearsal was only days away and Bucky couldn’t wait. He’d seen pieces of the Brooklyn Bridge prop, as well as props for the war scenes in the second act, and the effects were dazzling. 

The bridge was two storeys, painted beautifully, and the perfect backdrop to a Brooklyn love story. The faux trenches and fox holes for the war scenes weren’t going to be comfortable for Bucky to throw himself into, but they would give the scenes the right amount of tension. He couldn’t wait to lean back against one with Tanner, Sebastian’s war buddy. 

“We’re not going to make it,” Tanner would sing after firing blanks upstage.

“Don’t say that,” Sebastian will respond, slapping a hand against Tanner’s chest. “Have faith you’ll go home. Don’t you have someone to go back to? Someone you can’t disappoint?”

“Yeah, yeah I guess.” Tanner will shakily draw a picture from his pocket. “Her name’s Sandy.”

Sebastian will take the picture and smile.

“She’s beautiful.” He’ll hand the picture back. “Now you think of her every time you have that thought. You remember you gotta go back to her, Tanner. You, me, all the guys; we got people at home, and that’s what’ll keep us going.”

Then they’ll all sing, Sebastian, Tanner, and the others in the trenches. It’s a powerful piece about holding tight to the people at home. About keeping them in mind to keep going because without hope, everyone dies. Bucky loves it because it’s not just about hope, it’s about a dream that keeps you putting one foot in front of the other. It’s also the first real change in Sebastian. Instead of a buoyant ending, the others charge out while Sebastian quietly sings of the worries he tries to keep at bay. Two years at war, seeing so many dead, how can he not question if he will survive? How can he not wonder about Evan, when his letters number fewer and fewer each week? How can he hold onto his dreams of the future when he watches the world burn around him? It is the song of a man who was realizing you couldn’t always have a perfect, happy ending.

Then he would charge out himself, shouting and firing as small explosions simulate a firefight. It would be so much fun. But that was next week, this week Bucky had to meet with the costumers for final tailoring as well as makeup to go over his ‘look’. All Bucky wanted to do was practice, make sure he could hit every note flawlessly in his sleep. He knew better, though. This close to opening night practice was as important as taking care of his instrument, which meant equal amounts rest and a copious intake of caffeine free, herbal tea.

“Oh good! There you are!”

Bucky paused, turned, and blinked at Steve Rogers in surprise. The composer was slightly out of breath, a few strands of his hair spilling off to the side. The sleeves of his grey sweater were pushed up to his elbows, showing off forearms with ropey muscles and a smattering of fine hair.

“Here I am,” Bucky agreed. “Can I help you, Mr. Rogers?”

“I think so.” Rogers’ head bobbed as he nodded, caught Bucky’s sleeve at the wrist, and started tugging him along. “I need you to listen to something.”

Still utterly confused, Bucky managed a bewildered, “Okay,” and followed along as he was pulled back to the mainstage. In the orchestra pit, early arrivals were getting settled, warming up, or chatting quietly before their rehearsal started. Rogers ignored the lot, going to the accompaniment piano on stage and sliding onto the bench in a graceful, confident movement that looked completely unconscious.

With his sleeve released, Bucky crept a few steps closer until he stood at one end of the bench. From the corner of his eye, he could see someone - Tony or Bruce - waving at him, but his focus was on Rogers as he said, “It’s the final war scene, where Tanner dies? I thought… Well, listen.”

Rogers’ fingers flew over the piano, creating the soft, melancholy tone of Tanner’s death scene. With the orchestra warming up, Bucky had to lean forward, frowning as he blocked out the sounds of scales and riffs from various instruments clashing together at once. All he wanted to hear were the sounds caused by the caress of Rogers’ fingers. The original song was gentle, akin to the quiet weeping of the bereaved. That remained, but a darker, angrier edge now looped through the notes. Unless he wasn’t hearing it right with all the other noise.

As Rogers finished, Bucky slipped onto the bench and said, “Again?”

Without comment, Rogers turned back to the keys and played the song for him once more. He was sure of it now. The music thrummed as though whoever was crying also ground their teeth together in frustration. 

“A senseless death,” Bucky murmured, making Rogers’ hands freeze in place. “Sebastian’s helpless as well as crushed by the loss of his friend.”

Rogers’ smile was so sudden and beautiful, Bucky almost forgot what they were talking about.

“Yes!” Rogers crowed. “Yes, _exactly_ , yes. Okay, I’ll make the changes; thank you.”

And with that he was up and moving, gesturing to the orchestra to take their seats. For a moment, Bucky just sat and watched as he tried to determine just what he was feeling. There was a lot of confusion: why Rogers had come to him; why he’d made the change; why he suddenly cared what Bucky thought. There was also a burning pride that spread through his chest because Rogers had sought out _his_ approval. _His_. And that smile when he’d gotten it… Rogers was a gorgeous man.

Swallowing down the new emotions churning in his stomach, Bucky stood as quietly as he could. Rogers had called for a warm-up and the theater resonated with a slow F scale; he didn’t want to disturb them. He did catch Natasha’s eye, though. How could he not when she stared at him like she was trying to set his hair on fire.

“ _What was that_?” she mouthed silently.

Bucky could only tell the truth, mouthing back the words, “ _I’m so fucked_.”

\----

 **Natasha** : How bad is your crush?

Bucky sighed. This wasn’t what he wanted to dwell on, not right now. Things had almost been easier when he thought Rogers hated him. Having Rogers’ respect? Now Bucky was _nervous_. Again.

 **Clint** : What crush?

 **Tony** : Obviously his crush on Steve.

 _Steve_? Bucky thought. Since when was he Steve?

 **Bucky** : Shouldn’t you all be practicing?

 **Clint** : Steve’s working with the brass 

Which Bucky knew meant the other sections were bored out of their minds so there was no escaping this conversation. Well, he could deflect. That would work for a little while.

 **Bucky** : Since when is he Steve?

_Bruce Banner has been added to the chat._

**Natasha** : Don’t stall

Okay, maybe not.

 **Bruce** : Um, hi?

 **Tony** : Now you can be entertained as well

Bucky rolled his eyes. Great, so his personal life was now fodder to entertain half the string section. He was smart enough to realize he was only annoyed because his interaction with Rogers had left him wrong-footed. While he was enamoured with a sexy, talented, genius, he didn’t know where he stood with the man. It was only recently Rogers had watched him like a hawk at every performance, just waiting for Bucky to screw up his perfect opera.

 **Clint** : Buuuuuuckkyyyyyyyy. I’m BORED

Though he sighed and rolled his eyes again, Bucky found himself smiling as he typed his reply.

 **Bucky** : On a scale of The Ugly Truth to Titanic, I’ve struck the iceberg and am going down with the ship

 **Tony** : Ouch

 **Natasha** : No need to be so dramatic

 **Bruce** : I have no idea what’s going on

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bucky grumbled to himself as Tony’s dots danced in place to indicate he was typing. He started typing his own reply, but hit send only after Tony.

 **Tony** : Bucky worships Steve and managed to royally screw up their initial meeting so Steve hates him and Bucky is still in love because he’s hopeless

 **Bucky** : 1) I am a drama major. I cannot NOT be dramatic.   
2) It’s not dramatic to be crushed when your hero hates you   
3) You are supposed to support me  
4) I am not hopeless

 **Clint** : Hopeless

 **Bruce** : From the look Steve was giving him, it doesn’t look hopeless

Pausing mid-step, Bucky re-read that sentence. It didn’t change, making his heart beat harder in his chest. Then someone slammed a shoulder into him and he remembered what a terrible idea it was to stop in the middle of a New York sidewalk. 

When he looked down at his phone again, Natasha had replied, “I told you. Stop being so dramatic. You’re more When Harry Met Sally than Titanic.”

Bucky considered that, tucking his phone away, even as it buzzed, to keep it from flying from his hands if he was slammed into again. While he felt like he was drowning, unable to make up with Rogers, he wished they could be like Harry and Sally, frenemies slowly but surely getting together. He wasn’t sure he would survive such a slow-burn romance, though, not with how shitty he felt half the time. It would have been one thing if he hadn’t thought so highly of Rogers. Then he could brush away the remarks, not care about proving himself, or what Rogers thought of him. Unfortunately, he _did_ care what Rogers thought. He _wanted_ Rogers to think he was talented. More than either, he wanted Rogers to know he was _wrong_ about Bucky.

He wanted Rogers’ respect.

Once he’d found a lucky seat on the subway, Bucky fished his phone out and caught up on the messages.

 **Tony** : Could be worse, could be Mr. and Mrs. Smith

 **Clint** : How would that even work? 

**Natasha** : Obviously they meet, actually get on, but never bother to really get to know each other, and then try to kill each other once they find out

 **Clint** : Oh

 **Bruce** : That would be much worse

 **Tony** : At least in Titanic, the girl gets the bling

 **Natasha** : But Bucky would be the one giving the bling

 **Tony** : Right. Analogies are hard

 **Clint** : Could be The Notebook

 **Bruce** : That’s harsh

 **Tony** : Or the Fault in Our Stars

 **Natasha** : No one is dying. Stop it

 **Bruce** : You guys watch a lot of romance movies

 **Clint** : Usually all we can agree on. Nat hates action movies. Tony hates sci-fi. And Bucky gets wicked second-hand embarrassment from most comedies

 **Natasha** : Action movies are dumb. People would die before any plot happened

 **Tony** : Sci-fi is not based in actual science

 **Bruce** : What does Clint hate?

 **Natasha** : Horror. He’s a big, scaredy cat

 **Clint** : I told you. I’ll watch your horror movies in the bright light of day ONLY

 **Tony** : I think we lost Bucky

The following five minutes of silence suggested Rogers had finished working with the brass and was now working with the violin section again. That was all right; the conversation had put a smile on his face and given him some hope. Not for a big romance with Rogers (no matter how much he wanted it), but that they could get along. _Really_ get along. Rogers _had_ asked for his opinion, sought it out even, and had been happy to receive it. That was progress. That was something to be happy about. Anything else would come with time.


	4. The Big Finale

War had changed Sebastian. The world was no longer a bright, shining star with adventure around every corner. He didn’t smile, walked with stiff posture, and his eyes darted as he walked down his street to the brownstone his parents called home. The street itself was empty and dark, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle present the last time he had been here, almost hiding that his left sleeve was pinned up and empty.

Street lights flickered orange, casting deep shadows as he climbed the steps and knocked three times. The door creaked open and an older Darla appeared in a halo of yellow light. Beside that brightness, Sebastian in his dark green dress uniform was difficult to see.

“Hello?” Darla asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Sebastian glanced back at the dark street as if to flee.

“Mother? It’s… me.” 

Darla clutched at her throat and gasped loudly.

“Sebastian?” she whispered. Then, grasping at the door frame, she turned and shouted back into the dazzling light. “Guy! Guy, it’s Sebastian!”

In the next moment, Sebastian wrapped his arm around his mother who clung to his neck, crying. Sebastian didn’t have a chance to ask for an explanation before another figure appeared in the light: his father. Like Sebastian’s mother, he didn’t recognize his son right away; taking slow, unsteady steps toward his wife and son.

Shaking his head, Guy declared, “It can’t be. It can’t be. They said you were dead.”

“Dead?” Sebastian shook his head, holding his mother closer and shifting so that his sleeve swung back and forth. “No. Not quite.”

“It’s our boy!” Darla cried, reaching for Guy. “Oh, Guy! It’s our boy!”

Guy grasped Sebastian by the nape of his neck, holding him at arms’ length as he looked him up and down. 

“Your arm…”

Lips tightening, Sebastian nodded, sharply.

“Mortar bombardment. Eight months ago.”

“Eight months!” Guy took a step back, shaking his head. “Two years back, they sent a telegram. Everyone was devastated. Just devastated…” Guy shook his head again, then stepped forward to hold Sebastian by his shoulders. “But here you are and only an arm less! Darla,” Guy turned to his wife, “everyone has to know! Our boy is alive!”

“Alive and here!” Darla agreed, nodding vigorously. Sebastian just watched them in silence, disconnected from their joy. “Come, sweetheart, we’ll throw a ball. No! A masquerade! Everyone will be there. Everyone will be so happy to see you!”

“Mother, that’s not necessary.”

Guy shouted, “Nonsense! A grand party, in your name. That’s just the ticket for a returning hero.”

“I’m not,” Sebastian began, but with his father on his left and his mother on his right, he was swept into the light. The door shut firmly behind them.

\----

At the top of a grand staircase, Sebastian was once again flanked by his parents. All three were dressed extravagantly; Darla in a long red dress that flowed about her legs and clung to her chest and arms, Guy in a deep burgundy suit, and Sebastian in a dark Georgian-style purple waistcoat trimmed with gold. Sebastian’s shirt sleeve puffed out on the right, and had been pinned up at the elbow on the left. His collar was ruffled, but what made him stand out was the ornate, feathered headpiece that rose high above them all. The blue plumes swayed with his every movement, but did not conceal his long, soft, brown hair which curled over his shoulders. The black masks his parents wore were intricate and fine, but paled in comparison to Sebastian’s regalia.

Sebastian fidgeted, uncomfortable in the finery. 

“Everyone who’s anyone is here,” Guy declared, sweeping his arm to include the multitude dancing at the base of the stairs. 

Darla beamed, her arm hooked through her son’s remaining arm.

“They’re all here to see you.”

“But I don’t know them,” Sebastian argued, but his parents ignored him. His mother led him down the stairs as music swelled, bright and chipper, but over-loud. Sebastian’s smile was strained as he shook hands, greeting masked stranger after masked stranger. 

Music crescendoed, booming in time with Sebastian’s increasing heart rate, as a man in a simple, black suit with an equally simple black mask held out his hand. At his side was a woman in gold, from her hair to her high-heeled shoes, visible thanks to the upsweep of her gown. She smiled with crimson lips, happy and sweet, no mask hiding her fine-boned features. Sebastian thought they couldn’t be more different if they tried.

Without warning, the music stopped, bleeding silence as the two men clasped hands.

“Evan,” the man said, “and my wife, Gertrude.”

Sebastian’s voice was a croak as he repeated, “Wife.”

“Oh yes!” Gertrude gushed, pressing a dainty hand to her throat. “We were married last year. Evan was so unhappy you couldn’t make it, but, well, you were dead.”

A soft, regular rhythm began to play as Sebastian grew dizzy. He didn’t know what to say and so said nothing.

“But you’re not dead,” Evan stated. He hadn’t let go of Sebastian’s hand yet, but his eyes looked down at his left shoulder, then purposely away.

“No.” Sebastian gulped. “Can I speak to you privately?”

Though he looked pained, Evan nodded, and Sebastian used their linked hands to pull him through the swirling party-goers to an empty space by the wall. The melody increased tempo as they stopped, facing each other. Evan was stoic, lips pressed tightly together, while Sebastian had grown red in the face.

“Your _wife_ ,” Sebastian hissed. “ _This_ is how you choose to leave me? No letter? Nothing?”

Evan shrugged helplessly, pulling his hand back.

“You were dead, Sebastian. Who would I write to?”

“I wasn’t dead!”

Another shrug and then Evan’s hands were shoved into his pockets.

“I had no way to know that. They said you were dead.”

Rage pounded in Sebastian’s head and the music swirled with it, the _recitativo accompagnato_ harsh and quick, building to a force that couldn’t be stopped.

“So you just got married?” Sebastian demanded. “Just forgot all about me?”

Evan didn’t react as if the accusation upset him.

“I moved on. You were dead.”

“But…” The music tumbled away, dropping into a low murmur once more. “What about us?”

At last Evan’s face changed, regret and sadness filling his rugged features.

“There is no us, Sebastian. I came to see you because… because I mourned you, because I wanted to see you, because,” he glanced at his wife for a moment. “Now you know. Now you can move on, too.”

“But, I came back,” Sebastian said, too confused to be angry.

Evan nodded, his expression never changing.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I came _back_ ,” Sebastian repeated, a low rumble traveling through the melody. “I survived. For… for what?” 

Evan’s face tightened and he took a step away. Sebastian took a step forward, threat in the tightening of his fist. The music burst to life once more as if Sebastian was squeezing it with his clenched hand.

“For what?” he repeated, near shouting. The closed fist swept up and out, slashing at the pretty woman in red and gold. “For _this_?”

“We were children,” Evan said, backing away with his hands in the air, palms toward Sebastian in surrender. “Children dreaming stupid dreams.”

Sebastian stopped as if struck, staring as Evan gathered his wife to him and swept her into a dance. He danced as if he hadn’t just crushed Sebastian’s heart. The party-goers danced with him, women swirling in big, bright dresses and men in their black finery. Sebastian stood alone, an unmoving statue in a sea of movement. 

“For this?” he repeated as music reached a new crescendo, embodying his anger and disbelief. “I survived for _this_?!”

Stumbling away from the party goers, he climbed the stairs he had so recently descended as the music continued to rise. Half way up, he turned and shouted, “For this!” at the dancers. Not a man or woman paid him any heed. They carried on smiling and celebrating as if Sebastian wasn’t even there.

Shaking his head, Sebastian belted out his pain, at the injustice of war, of the lives he’d seen snuffed out, the men he’d killed to ensure he survived, because he had been made a promise. A promise of love. Love, the only reason he had to keep fighting, to kill, to scrape in mud and blood. A promise that had vanished now that he had come home. 

Anger could not sustain Sebastian for long, not after all he’d seen and done. Not in the face of this betrayal. Evan danced with his wife in the center of the throng, smiling at her the way he’d once smiled at Sebastian, and his song turned to grief. It quieted and trembled. The dancers slowed as well, holding each other closer. 

“How can you not still feel it?” Sebastian sang quietly. “Did we rush it? Here I stand, as a broken man, as the sun dims and the wind blows cold. Why is it _her_ that you hold?”

The music rises again as Sebastian turned and climbed to the top of the stairs. At the top he looked down again and lets out his grief. Years of war, looking forward to this moment, and the man he loved was no longer his. Everything Sebastian had was gone: his youth, his innocence, his hope, and his love. It was over, all of it, because war was never a time to love.

The last notes burst into pure silence and Sebastian walked away as the dancers faded into darkness.

\----

Steve was breathless. Bucky sang his last note as Sebastian, the lights snapped off, and Steve’s throat constricted. 

It was perfect; his opera was perfect. Sure, this was just a dress rehearsal, but his cast and orchestra had lived up to their individual reputations as the best of the best.

And James, god, James had been flawless. Every note, every cue, every single mark; he’d hit them all. The few remaining doubts Steve had had vanished, swept away by James’ talent. Steve knew no one would play his Sebastian better, even when the opera was performed in other places and other theaters. James embodied his music like no one had before him.

The lights came back on to show the entire cast on stage. Without prompting, the orchestra stood, filling the Met with the sound of applause. The cast laughed and bowed playfully, but then every eye was on Steve, waiting for direction, for final notes, or last minute adjustments. They were waiting for him while Steve wasn’t quite able to catch his breath.

Steve choked out, “It’s perfect.” 

The sound of his own voice, halting and rough, made him realize he was near tears. The tightness of his throat, the breathlessness; he was about to cry. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just - you’re all perfect. Thank you.”

The last words cracked as the floodgates broke. Steve hiccupped a breath and tried to wipe the tears away, but could only laugh as they didn’t stop.

“Aw, Steve,” he heard Brock shout, and a few moments later he was being pulled into a powerful hug. When he looked up, though, it was Thor readjusting his spine.

A small hand touched Steve’s back and Peggy called out, “I think what your director would like to say is well done, every one of you. There’s no doubt opening night will be a hit. Take the rest of the day off; you’ve earned it. This is spectacular work.”

“And call time is at five!” Steve shouted before sniffling again.

Patting Thor’s chest - his shoulders were a bit of a reach - Steve stepped out of his embrace and faced his cast. He still wasn’t completely together, but he wasn’t ashamed of the tears in his eyes when the cause was seeing his opera come to life.

“Thank you,” he told the artists. “Every moment of practice, of effort, has more than paid off. You’ve made my vision come to life, not just as I saw it, but _better_. Tomorrow will be a lifelong dream of mine come true and it’s thanks to each of you. _Bravo_. Thank you,” Steve found his gaze locked with James’, “I can’t say it enough.”

Steve took a breath in the silence that followed and found he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Now get out of here! Rest, relax, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With cheers and laughter, the cast filed backstage to get changed. Their energy was high so Steve knew no one would be heading to bed right away. That was fine; they had earned a night out after weeks of dedication. Plus, call wasn’t until the next evening so there would be plenty of time to recover.

Thor chuckled, watching everyone either heading backstage, or packing up their instruments.

“I do not believe I have ever pleased a director, composer, or conductor the way we have pleased you.”

Steve smiled as he dried his eyes.

“It’s perfect,” he said again. “Everything. I never… nothing has come together like this before. There’s always something that isn’t quite right, but not this time.”

“I am happy for you,” Thor said, laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Peggy snorted.

“I’m just glad you’ll stop being so crazy for a while.”

Turning, he swept her into a hug, lifting Peggy right off her feet.

“Thank you for putting up with me and finding the perfect cast and everything else you do. None of it would exist without you.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Peggy said, but the returned hug tightened, betraying how touched she was by the words. “But I think you should do the casting next time. Avoid another Barnes situation.”

“God, did you see him?” Steve held her at arms’ length, excitement causing him to nearly vibrate. “He was… Incredible isn’t good enough. He _embodies_ Sebastian, like he _is_ my music.”

Laughing, Peggy patted Steve’s cheek and said, “Adorable,” again.

“Come, my friend,” Thor said, using his hand on Steve’s shoulder to guide him out of the seats toward the aisle. “I am having a gathering with many of the others. You will come.”

“I can’t,” Steve protested even as he was pushed toward the door. “There’s still so much to do…”

“Nonsense. It can all wait until the morrow. Tonight you will have fun. It has been too long since you relaxed or enjoyed yourself.”

Steve sighed, but stopped protesting. Thor was right. The opera had consumed him for months. Plus, nothing had to be done right then. It could all keep until tomorrow, especially if he didn’t stay out too late.

“So who will be there?” Steve asked as he shrugged into his fleece lined windbreaker.

Steve didn’t trust Thor’s smile as he answered only with, “You will see,” but he followed Thor down the street, toward the subway. The cast wasn’t the only one who had done well; he deserved a break, too.

\----

“We made Rogers cry!” Bucky shouted as he skipped down the sidewalk. Then the words he’d said caught up to him and he stopped dead where he stood. "Doesn’t quite sound right, does it?”

Natasha and Clint, who had waited with Tony and Bruce for him to change out of costume and makeup, swept up on either side of him. They were both smiling as they linked their arms with his and began to skip, forcing Bucky to start again. He laughed with them as they frollicked down the New York street as if they were still kids. For Clint, the behavior was expected, but for Natasha it never would have happened before she’d met Clint. He had taught her to let go and Bucky would be forever grateful for that.

“It is very weird to be proud of making someone cry,” Clint agreed.

“Well, it was a good cry,” Natasha said.

From behind them where he was walking with Bruce, Tony shouted, “Don’t mind us back here! We only waited for you too! Go on, we’ll catch up!”

Bucky, Natasha, and Clint laughed so hard they stumbled, pulling each other this way and that to keep their balance as they slowed once more to a walk.

Bucky called back, “Thanks, Tony! You’re a real pal!” before he’d stopped laughing.

Clint snickered.

“Like he minds being stuck alone with Bruce.”

Natasha tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and smirked.

“Hopefully he’ll finally ask Bruce out. He’s too oblivious to realize how Tony feels.”

“They’re adorable,” Bucky said with a happy sigh.

They approached the subway entrance and Natasha squeezed his arm before letting go so they could descend the stairs in a single file.

“One day soon you’ll be gross like they are.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but knew better than to comment. His massive, unrequited love for Steve Rogers was a source of endless amusement to his friends. If they hadn’t all agreed that Steve owed him an apology, he might have minded. As it was, he wished they were right and Rogers didn’t look at him like a bug he wanted to squash. Even that would be an improvement.

To change the subject, he asked “So where are we going?”

“Thor’s,” Clint answered. “He’s throwing a small party at his place for some of the orchestra.”

“Thor’s the other violinist?” Bucky clarified, meaning the last of the first violinists in the Met’s orchestra. Now that he knew Bruce, Thor was the only one Bucky didn’t know. Considering he had been the first person at Rogers’ side when he had begun crying, Bucky wasn’t sure he would be welcome.

Natasha must have sensed his nerves as she said, “Don’t worry, he knows you’re coming.”

“Oh good,” Bucky said, though he wasn’t sure if it was or not.

They swiped their way through the turnstiles and jogged to the platform. Clint and Natasha began discussing some new technology for creating violin strings from spider silk, and Bucky tuned out. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, it was just that now he was thinking about Rogers. More specifically, he was thinking of the way Rogers had stared at him while thanking everyone. It had felt, for a single glorious moment, like Rogers was personally thanking _him_. Just him. Bucky would be a liar if he said he didn’t want that. He wanted it so much he was starting to hate himself a little. What kind of pathetic creature was he to crave the approval of someone who disliked him? He wanted to get rid of these feelings, but that was as easy as asking the sun to rise an hour early. 

The train sent a rush of warm air through the station as it arrived. Tony and Bruce walked up as it slowed to a stop and the passengers exited. 

“Cutting it close,” Natasha noted.

Tony shrugged.

“There’s always another train.”

Bruce smiled at Tony and followed the others onto the train.

“But we want _this_ train.”

“And we got this train, didn’t we?” Tony pushed a hand through his hair, taming it from the gust of wind. “Honestly, it’s like you have no faith in me.”

“Should I have faith in you?” Bruce asked, that smile still on his lips.

Dramatic as always, Tony clutched at his chest and feigned a swoon so he ‘fell’ on Bruce, draping himself over his shoulders.

“My heart! Oh, it hurts so!”

Bruce laughed and made a half-hearted attempt at pushing Tony off him. Bucky smiled at them, knowing it was only a matter of time before they got their shit together. And they would be so good together, balancing each other in the best of ways. Unlike Natasha, Bucky wasn’t in a rush to see them figure it out. He liked watching them flirt, playful and almost shy, both testing for where the line was, or if there was a line at all. There wasn’t. Anyone with eyes could see that Bruce had a crush on Tony and Tony was over the moon for Bruce.

And maybe Bucky was a little jealous. Once Tony and Bruce were official, he would be the single one since Natasha had Clint. They sat side by side on the plastic subway seats, knees touching, violins between their thighs. Clint’s hands were hazards, flying about as he talked, while Natasha’s focus on him spoke volumes Bucky prayed Clint could read. 

Bucky sighed and pulled out his phone, praying for a signal of any kind. He was going to have fun tonight, not mope like a love sick kid. He wasn’t going to _be_ Sebastian; he just played the guy.

Twenty minutes later, the five of them climbed back into the New York night. Thor’s apartment was on the top floor of a four story building in Brooklyn. The first floor housed a deli, which reminded Bucky that he was starving. The stairway was tight, but well-lit, and they jogged to the top instead of risking an elevator in a building they’d never been in before. 

At the top, Natasha knocked on a black door and moments later it was thrown open by Thor, his long hair let down from its customary ponytail so it cascaded around his neck in soft waves. “You came!” he boomed, throwing his hands in the air and embracing Natasha with one arm and Clint with the other.

To Bucky’s surprise, Natasha didn’t try to stab Thor for being presumptuous.

“Of course we came,” she said, giving Thor a quick squeeze before pulling back and gesturing Bucky forward. “You already know Tony and Bruce, of course, and Bucky here, in passing. Now you get to meet properly.”

Bucky held out his hand and watched Thor’s paw swallow it entirely.

“A pleasure!” Thor said so sincerely Bucky didn’t doubt him for a moment. “Come inside, all of you. There’s drinks, food…”

Thor kept talking, but Bucky didn’t hear what he was saying. In the back, by a flat screen T.V., was Steve Rogers, wine glass in hand. He was impossible to miss. Like most New York apartments, the place was small, just a single bedroom, bathroom, closet and kitchen. After entering, Bucky could see everything and everyone. Besides the five of them, there was Thor, a woman he’d know anywhere as Peggy Carter, and Steve Rogers. And he knew he’d been set up.

He hissed, “Natasha,” but she either ignored him (likely) or didn’t hear him (unlikely), and followed Thor into the kitchen.

In an effort to keep from staring, Bucky looked down at his shoes, but was promptly buffeted as both Bruce and Tony tried to get past him. He wouldn’t be able to just stand in the hall and pretend this wasn’t happening, not in such a limited space. Maybe he could fade into the background, though, if he could claim the corner spot of Thor’s couch and just never move again.

Bucky made it three steps before Rogers noticed him. Tensing for a glare or a comment, Bucky instead experienced what it was like to watch Rogers light up with excitement. God, he was beautiful. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his shoulders straightened, and his eyes sparkled. More than anything Bucky wished it was him that had caused such a reaction.

And then he realized he _had_ as Rogers reached out and took his wrist, leading him forward to stand in a triangle along with Peggy. Bucky stared at the hand on his wrist until it left and only then remembered to pay attention to what was being said to him.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Rogers had said. “I was just telling Peggy about the help you gave me with the war scenes.”

Since his brain hadn’t kept up, Bucky stumbled over and said, “Um,” before his heart calmed down enough to allow him to think. “I don’t think I helped all that much. I just listened....”

“Which not all of us wish to do,” Peggy said dryly. “Especially at two in the morning.”

Chagrined, Rogers looked at her apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Pegs, but you really do have to thank James for that.”

“Bucky,” Bucky said without thinking. “I, um, go by Bucky.”

Surprised, Rogers said, “Oh, Bucky then,” and Bucky felt himself blush for exactly no reason whatsoever. 

Peggy looked amused.

“Yes, thank you, Bucky. You saved me quite a bit of sanity. Normally, Steve is driving me up the wall.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky said uncertainly, “but I still don’t think -”

But Peggy wasn’t listening anymore. She finished the bottom dredges in her glass, touched Bucky’s shoulder, and said, “Excuse me,” before walking away entirely.

“Let’s sit,” Rogers said, and his hand was around Bucky’s wrist again, leading him gently toward the L-shaped couch in Thor’s living room. The touch would have been effortless to break, but Bucky didn’t. His skin warmed beneath that point of contact, and Bucky wished, desperately, that he wasn’t so in love with Steve Rogers because it was going to be a long, long night. 

It turned out, being hated was easier than being appreciated.

\----

Steve felt drunk. He wasn’t; he’d only consumed half a glass of wine, and that in the last thirty minutes. Nevertheless, he was floating, buzzing, and simply soaring on the joy he’d experienced from the moment his tears had abated. His opera was perfect. Nothing could make him happier.

Well, one thing.

The short trip to Thor’s had been enough to make him realize he needed to apologize to James. And he was James from the moment he sang that last note until the moment Steve saw him again at Thor’s, and he introduced himself as Bucky. Bucky, a unique name for a spectacular man. Steve loved it.

Pulling Bucky to the couch, he sat and watched as Bucky joined him.

“Since we have a moment, I wanted to apologize.” Bucky’s grey-blue eyes widened in surprise and Steve smiled in embarrassment. “When we met, I didn’t know who you were, and I was - Well, I was rude. If I’d read the dossiers on my cast, I would have known who you were, and I would have listened. Instead I had to be shown, and that was after making this whole production harder on you than it had to be. So, I’m sorry, Bucky. I hope you can forgive me, I… get a little crazy about my work.”

Bucky wasn’t smiling, or showing any other sign he was about to forgive Steve, but he said, “It has to be perfect.”

Steve nodded, feeling a flutter of pleasure that Bucky understood.

“Exactly. And when someone I don’t know tells me it’s awful…” Steve sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. “I reacted badly and I’m so sorry for that. You’ve been better than I could ever have expected after that. I’ve never been so wrong about someone.”

That, at last, got Bucky to smile. It was a small, shy thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“Why in the world didn’t you find out who was cast if you’re such a perfectionist?”

Steve waved a hand.

“Peggy finds good people and that’s not what has to be perfect, it’s the music, the harm-”

“You’re wrong,” Bucky interrupted, startling Steve into silence. That little smile was gone again, replaced by an irritated expression that didn’t bode well for Steve. “Nothing you do can exist if we’re not an embodiment of your characters, if we don’t inhabit them. How can you possibly have perfection if you don’t find your leads yourself? Peggy Carter is a legend, but no one can know who will be perfect except you.”

A month ago, Steve wouldn’t have listened. A month ago, he would have chalked up the response as more proof that Bucky was a self-centered diva. A month ago was why he was apologizing tonight. He had learned since then that Bucky had a keen ear, especially when it came to the emotions a piece was meant to invoke. Now, tonight, Steve would be an idiot to brush him off again. So, he paused, then closed his mouth. 

At that, Bucky smiled, quick and pleased, so Steve kept his mouth shut.

“I haven’t been doing this as long as you have,” Bucky went on, hands pressed between his knees, “but I’m no one to sneeze at. I’ve worked damn hard; I’m dedicated to this. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, and I am telling you the best play means nothing when it’s cast badly. Opera singers aren’t just… just puppets you plop on stage, point in a direction, and pipe songs through. We bring your work to _life. We_ do that, and you act like we don’t matter.”

Again Steve opened his mouth, but then closed it. 

When he put it like that, Steve felt stuipd. It was his music, sure, but his cast weren’t just instruments. He knew that; had always known the value of a skilled performer over an amateur, but he hadn’t made the greater connection until Bucky spelled it out for him. 

And Bucky had been too kind to do it after all Steve had done. Or maybe just stubborn, since Steve hadn’t proved he was going to learn from his mistakes. He had only apologized for making one. That was something he could fix now, if he couldn’t fix the earlier screw ups.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again. “You’re right.”

Cupping his hand behind his ear, Bucky said, “What was that?” 

Steve didn’t smack him because he probably deserved it, but also because Bucky’s playful smile was a sight to behold.

“You’re right,” Steve said, louder than the first time. “Next time, I'll help with casting, even if I’ll hate it.”

Bucky looked confused.

“Why do you hate it?”

Pursing his lips in distaste, Steve admitted, “I’m not really a people person.”

“You don’t say,” Bucky said dryly.

Steve ignored the dig.

“I get irritated easily, so I’d rather just skip it entirely, but you’re right -”

“You keep saying that.”

Grinning, Steve said, “I need to be involved with casting.”

“Knowing who’s who in the industry probably wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“Careful now,” Steve said, ready to do some teasing of his own, “Someone might think you’ve got a big head. They might even think…”

Steve paused dramatically and Bucky groaned, “Don’t say it.”

Laughing Steve held up his hands defensively as he said, “They might think you’re a diva.”

Bucky hit him with one of Thor’s throw pillows, making Steve laugh harder. It also made him realize that he wasn’t _teasing_ Bucky. He was flirting. And he was enjoying himself while doing it. Steve hadn’t flirted with anyone in… in years.

After another _thwack_ of the pillow, Bucky relented and Steve asked hopefully, “Does that mean that I’m forgiven?”

Though he squinted at Steve like he was considering the answer, Steve already knew what he would say before he said, “Yeah, you’re forgiven.”

There was no mistaking how happy those three words made him feel, and Steve’s smile threatened to split his face.

“Good,” he said, “I’m glad. I was hoping we could be friends. You’re amazing. I mean, the way you know just what I’m trying to express is uncanny.”

Bucky actually blushed, the color filling his cheeks as he looked down at his lap. His bashful smile had Steve smiling in return; a fond twist of his lips caused by the fluttering feeling in his chest. Affection, Steve realized, and not the brotherly kind. At some point - he didn’t remember when - he had developed a crush on his opera’s star.

Well, at least that explained the flirting.

“I’ve been a huge fan of yours,” Bucky said quietly. “I’ve got all your original soundtracks, though I’m so busy I’m afraid I’ve only seen half of them live. I guess what I’m saying is that I have a lot of experience with your work.”

While Steve remembered Bucky saying he was a fan when they had first met, hearing it this time was flattering. He had to clear his throat before he could speak again.

“If you’re trying to say you’re not special, I’ll have to beg to differ. You are extraordinary. No one will ever play Sebastian like you. Hell, my opera would be nothing without you.”

Once more, Steve watched Bucky blush and look down. He tried to fix the sight, along with the moment, in his mind. He didn’t want to forget this night.

That feeling only grew stronger as the night drew on. They talked for hours; about the opera, about themselves, politics, music, books, and movies. Nothing seemed to be off the table, not when Bucky was so easy to talk to. Steve couldn’t remember ever finding it so effortless, or being listened to so completely. Bucky was fascinating as well and Steve reveled in his stories of working and living abroad. He only realized they had been together all night when Tony and Bruce begged off, saying they wanted an early night. Incredibly talented musicians he had been looking forward to getting to know outside work, and he hadn’t even said hello. And they weren’t the only ones Steve had ignored in favor of Bucky’s company. In fact, they hadn’t spoken to anyone else since they’d sat down on the couch.

“Oh shit,” Bucky said. He had woken his phone and now stared at its screen. “It’s almost midnight.”

Leaning over, Steve saw it was, indeed, 11:43. He frowned, not liking where this was going.... Which really wasn’t like him. He never stayed out late the night before an opening. And yet, he didn’t want _this_ night to end.

Bucky stood, looking disappointed as he tucked his cell phone into a pocket.

“I should go, too,” he told Steve. His expression didn’t waiver, though. He looked as disheartened as Steve felt. And Steve felt like the moment was slipping out of his hands. Like he had to grab it and hang on, or he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Steve said, ‘Of course,” though because that was a ridiculous feeling to have about _talking_ to Bucky. Wasn’t it? While he _had_ developed feelings for the opera star, and he was incredibly good-looking, that was no reason to go crazy. Not even if Bucky was smart and funny and embodied everything Steve loved about opera, even inspiring several ideas for his next work with his stories and captivating smiles. Nor was there any reason for Steve to feel jealous as Bucky made his goodbyes and hugged everyone else but him.

Partway to his feet with the intention of heading home as well, Steve flopped back as he realized how oblivious he was being. Steve had caught feelings for Bucky at some point, sure. But tonight? Tonight he had fallen in love, and his love was literally walking out the door.

Scrambling to his feet, Steve called, “Bucky, wait!”

Everyone turned to stare at Steve, but that was fine seeing as it had kept Bucky there a moment longer.

“Give me a minute to say goodbye?” he asked Bucky, and wasn’t ashamed to hear the pleading note in his tone. “I’d like to walk you home.”

When Bucky turned red and looked down again, Steve could have fistpumped like a college frat boy. But he wasn’t twenty any more, so he just grinned as Bucky nodded and made a quick round to everyone still there. 

Two handshakes and hugs later, he was pulling on his jacket and following Bucky down the stairs. Before they got to the first floor, Steve had had to adjust himself; Bucky’s ass had turned out to be as perfect as the rest of him, and Steve had enjoyed the silent descent more than he would ever admit.

They hit the sidewalk and Steve said, “I have to admit, I have an ulterior motive here.”

Bucky glanced at him and flashed him a smile with the corner of his mouth.

“Oh?”

Steve hummed, “Mm. I really don’t want tonight to end. This part.” Reaching out, he gently pulled Bucky’s hand from inside his jacket. He laced their fingers together while praying he hadn’t misread Bucky’s signals. “Being with you is amazing. I don’t want it to end.”

“Me either,” Bucky murmured. Then he squeezed Steve’s hand and Steve’s heart began pounding against his rib cage.

“No,” Steve said, his confidence growing every moment. “I don’t want it to _ever_ end. Tonight, tomorrow; be with me, Bucky. I was an idiot when I met you, and I can’t promise I’ll never be an idiot again, but I’m smart enough to see my future when it’s right in front of me.”

“I..I…” Bucky looked star-struck, staring up at Steve in shock. “I don’t know what to say.”

Steve curled Bucky’s fingers about his own and brought them to his lips.

“Say you’ll go out with me.”

“ _Go out with you_?” Bucky blurted. “That sounded like a marriage proposal.”

Both nodding and shrugging, Steve said, “Just because I can see my future with you doesn’t mean we should rush. We deserve all of it: our first date, first kiss, late night phone calls where we talk long after we both should be in bed.”

“Well, we’ve had our first fight,” Bucky said in that dry teasing tone Steve was already coming to love.

“We have,” Steve agreed, “and I was a complete asshole.”

“Complete,” Bucky murmured, his gaze flicking to Steve’s lips. “I think you should make it up to me.”

Steve stepped closer.

“Oh yeah? I thought I was forgiven.”

"Well, sure,” Bucky’s pink tongue flicked out, moistening his lips, “but you should still be extra nice to make it up to me, since you were in the wrong.”

Though he couldn’t help but snort with laughter, Steve took the hint and pulled Bucky so their chests pressed together. He hooked Bucky’s arm around his own waist as he cupped the base of Bucky’s head with his other hand. Then they were both leaning in, lips pressing together in a lingering kiss that made Steve’s toes curl.

 _This_ , he thought as they broke apart an inch before kissing again, _is when they lived happily ever after. And now I get to find out what comes after._

**Author's Note:**

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